


The Multitudinous Seas Incarnadine

by Think_of_a_Wonderful_Thought



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abuse, Founders, Gen, Hogwarts Sixth Year, Slavery, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-03-26 00:34:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 122,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13846332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Think_of_a_Wonderful_Thought/pseuds/Think_of_a_Wonderful_Thought
Summary: Sixth-year. Out after curfew, Ginny and the Creevey brothers stumble upon a stranger in the Hogwarts kitchens, an unlucky servant of a group of wizards all flung through time by an experimental portkey. What Harry learns from him will change long held beliefs about wizarding society. After all, after a thousand years, who can really know the true story of the founding of Hogwarts? And just who were the Founders, really?Cross-posted on FF.net .





	1. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all and welcome to the story. This will be a long one. Everything is planned out and there's nothing I hate more than a WIP that never gets finished, so I promise that this will be completed! TW for slavery and violence (although nothing I post will be overtly graphic). This is also going to be predominantly gen (definitely compared to HBP standards anyway) so canon pairings only and they're not really going to play a huge part of the story.  
> This is an edited version of the story on FF.net, so I should be posting the next few chapters up over the course of this weekend.
> 
> TWs for this chapter: reference to physical abuse and slavery.
> 
> Please read and review and let me know what you think.

Dean Thomas was an absolute moron and an insensitive prick of the highest calibre, and no attempt to convince Ginny Weasley otherwise would work until she had consumed her body weight in chocolate frogs and cauldron cakes. It was this statement that she hissed at Colin, as she stormed down from the boy’s dormitory and across the common room to where he was sat by the fire, losing pitifully to his younger brother at Exploding Snap. She stared down at him, as he looked up at her in amusement and what might have been relief for the interruption. He slowly sat back in his chair and waited for her to speak. Too angry to form words, Ginny seethed for a minute through gritted teeth, and slowly attempted to compose herself through deep breaths. Whoever said she never listened to her mother, Colin thought idly, had never seen her calm herself down from the latest boyfriend trouble. She finally managed to regain a bit of decorum, which Colin knew would not have been helped by the knowing smirk he couldn’t keep off his face, but he couldn’t help himself. This was not the first time they’d had this conversation. Ginny glared at him with wounded dignity for a long moment, before stating in a voice that could cut glass, hands imperiously placed on her hips, that so-help-her-Merlin someone had better supply her with sugar and sympathy soon, or she was going to have to summarily hex any and all men that crossed her path for the next week.

“Dean,” Colin replied knowingly, smiling first in understanding to Ginny and then in reassurance to Dennis, who was staring at the irate girl like he might wet himself. Which, Colin admitted to himself, was fair; the Weasley family had a reputation. Ginny huffed in irritation, and folded her arms tightly across her chest. As soon as Colin spoke, the apoplectic rage seemed to leave Ginny and she deflated like a popped balloon, flinging herself into one of the comfy chairs recently vacated by a terrified first year. The Weasley family had a reputation.

“What’s he done now?” Colin asked, biting back the groan he knew was gathering itself in his lungs, as he indicated to Dennis to clear away the cards. They were not going to get to finish the game, after all.

“He’s a prick,” Ginny replied with a snarl, “An absolute fucking insensitive bastard who can’t tell the difference between his wand and his-”

“Hey!” Colin cut her off, lurching across the table to fling his hands over his little brother’s ears in mock outrage. “There are sensitive little ears present!” He was fixed with two equally withering glares, as Dennis slapped his hands away in consternation.

“You don’t need to tell me that Dean Thomas is a prick,” Dennis informed the two older students with a sniff. “I heard he cursed Katie Bell to get onto the Quidditch team.” Colin was shocked, to say the least; he had not heard that particular rumour yet. He blinked away his confusion at the never ending imagination of the Hogwarts rumour mill and fixed his little brother with a very stern look.

“Where did you hear that?” Colin asked very seriously.

“Because that’s a vicious rumour,” Ginny continued. “Probably started by Seamus, twat can’t throw a Quaffle to save his life. Besides, Harry reckons it was-“

“None of our business and up to the professors to sort out, right?” Colin cut across her, staring pointedly at his younger brother. “Besides, weren’t we declaring Dean the devil incarnate and verbally flaying him alive for some reason?” The change of subject was not at all subtle, but with a little brother like Dennis, it was completely necessary. Colin didn’t want his idiotic younger brother running off and emulating his hero Harry Potter, investigating the latest mystery at Hogwarts and nearly getting himself killed in the process. Colin hoped that Ginny would understand; she’d always been sensitive about cursed objects, anyway.

Ginny, however, did not pick up the conversational bait; she was staring at the fire, her brow furrowed in a frown. Luna would say she was plagued by Nargles again. Colin coughed very unsubtly and raised an eyebrow at her. Ginny shook herself abruptly and smiled appreciatively in return, apparently thankful for the return to the matter at hand.

“That’s right. Dean’s a prick and I need to eat something sickly sweet before I even begin explaining how or why,” she stated firmly, heading for the portrait hole. “So…kitchens?” She threw the question over her shoulder; Colin looked at her retreating figure, and then at Dennis. His brother’s puppy dog eyes were almost as compelling as Colin’s need to know Ginny’s latest relationship gossip. It was not a hard decision to make. Heaving a sigh, Colin dragged Dennis to his feet; they were, apparently, off to the kitchens.  
Thankfully there weren’t any prefects around, when Ginny slipped out of the portrait hole with the two boys following behind. Colin knew that she had years of experience sneaking out past both her mother and Percy, the live-in prefect, to the broom shed at the Burrow, which had taught her how to evade authority figures, but he couldn’t help but feel a little nervous. It was after curfew, and he was too tired, and he did not have enough of his friend’s experience to be properly sneaky. Also, Professor Dumbledore had held the whole school back after dinner to announce that everyone was confined to the dormitories for the night. They weren’t saying why, but Colin suspected that it was something to do with the real reason Katie Bell was still in St Mungo’s, whatever that was. But, Colin reminded himself, Ginny needed some junk food and a good moan. So, whilst he was an amazing friend for breaking curfew so blatantly to go on this little field trip, he was probably a terrible brother for allowing Dennis to come along. He was also incredibly grateful that Hermione Granger was not around to catch them at it. He had been terrified of her since first year.

They were halfway down the fifth floor corridor when the Fat Friar floated past and idly informed them that Filch was dealing with a Peeves-related incident in the astronomy tower. They nodded their rather surprised thanks to the helpful ghost, continuing on their way with more confidence. Colin took advantage of the reported safety, and lit his wand. The ghost followed them down the corridor, before taking his leave. As he floated off, he smiled widely, and suggested that a good disillusionment charm was always helpful when seeking out a midnight feast. Ginny growled and stormed ahead, yanking Colin along behind her, muttering that, if she were capable of performing that spell, her life would be a damn sight easier.

Colin avoided asking the question that was blooming quietly at the back of his mind, half-afraid that Ginny might go completely ballistic and yell at him in the middle of the corridor, stealth be damned, if he dared to voice it. He was mustering the courage to interrupt her tantrum, when she apparently read his mind.

“Just ask Colin,” she muttered in irritation. Colin tried very hard not to swear loudly when her unexpected comment cut through his musings, but he recovered himself quickly. Well, he thought to himself, let it never be said that Colin Creevey was a man to miss an opportunity.

“Why aren’t we just grabbing some food from the stash in the common room, then?” He whispered quickly, torn between wariness at her apparent omniscience, and genuine confusion. “Surely that’s easier than trekking all the way down to the kitchens?”

“Because I don’t trust Romilda fucking Vane not to have laced the whole lot with Fred and George’s love potions. That’s why,” Ginny replied tartly, glaring at the tapestry on the wall ahead of them; Colin silently willed the shortcut behind it to lead to the right floor for once. Ginny sighed, and continued. “She’s on a mission this year.” Ah, this Colin understood. After all, the fourth years may lack subtlety when it came to lusting after the ‘Chosen One’, but they could be damn perseverant when the mood struck.

“Who’s Romilda Vane?” Dennis chirped up from behind the pair of fifth years, standing on his tiptoes to stare at the wall over Colin’s shoulder. Ginny nearly jumped a foot in the air. She had apparently forgotten that his little brother was there; unfortunately for her, when it came to his little brother, where one Creevey went, another was sure to follow.

“Why are you here again, Dennis?” she asked dryly, ushering them both though the tapestry. Colin was pleased to find that the shortcut had landed them, as hoped, in a classroom on the third floor. He did not immediately jump to his little brother’s defence, but instead watched his friend carefully. Ginny’s bad moods, whilst infamous amongst the Weasley clan, did not normally extend to yelling at everyone in her immediate vicinity – unlike some oblivious, Quidditch-obsessed, stupidly noble, idiotic boys that he knew. Even so, Colin knew that she would certainly allow herself a bit of leeway with annoying third years who were gegging in on her sulks to the kitchens. Unfortunately for her, Colin thought with a slight grin, as he watched her swallow her irritation and bury it deep, deep down, the price for Colin’s presence and patience with her latest relationship troubles was his little brother’s first introduction to post-curfew food forays. Colin knew she would be tolerant; she had no choice. Because, when it came down to it, there was no one better to moan about boys with, in the whole of the Scottish Highlands, than Colin Creevey. Even if he did say so himself.

He did however feel a little bit guilty. Their midnight feast bitching sessions about boys were usually sacrosanct, and he was dragging his little brother along. But he’d promised Dennis some family time, and she’d interrupted their game of snap. Also, he understood (God did he understand) that she was going through some shit this year, what with her brother being a dick about her relationship with Dean, but Ginny had more relationship angst than Lavender Brown - and that was saying something. So perhaps, just perhaps, he wanted to bring along a buffer for this latest session. Sue him, as his cousin Jenny would say. Knowing that Ginny was probably a bit miffed was not, however, going to deter him from his brotherly duty of educating his younger sibling on the finer points of the politics of Gryffindor Tower. He turned to Dennis, with a disgusted look on his face.

“Romilda’s that cow in fourth year,” Colin spat, never being one for tact or circumspection, “the one that keeps going on about her cousin, the Auror.” He rolled his eyes to ensure that Dennis knew how ridiculous he should find the whole thing. “She’s all over Harry this year, just because the Prophet has finally admitted he isn’t a complete lunatic and might have a point about You-Know-Who being, you know, dangerous.” Dennis went to speak, but Colin held a finger to his lips, indicating for him to be quiet, as they opened the classroom door and stepped out into the corridor. He muttered a quiet Nox, just in case; the third-floor portraits were notoriously irritable if they were woken up by curfew violators.

Ginny rolled her eyes, although Colin knew that he had a point about Romilda. Half the school was suddenly enamoured with her brother’s best friend, as if the whole of last year never happened, as if ostracising Harry was old news. Which, admittedly, in the grand scheme of the Hogwarts gossip cycle, it probably was. But, Ginny had been quick to tell him on the first day of term, having spent a whole summer in the company of the Boy-Who-Lived, she did not think that Harry was going to forgive and forget anytime soon. So, really, Colin acknowledged, any efforts of Romilda and co. on the Potter front were rather in vain. However, he still didn’t like the sudden hypocritical change of public opinion. He said as much to Ginny, and she shrugged casually; very little ever fazed Ginny Weasley. A loud creak split the air, and they fell silent for a few panicked minutes, before they warily headed down a staircase that was looking a little too innocent.

“Doesn’t mean Harry’s not going to forget all of that crap, with all of Gryffindor throwing themselves at him,” Colin seethed, lighting his wand with a vicious mutter and resuming the conversation, as they found themselves in an unused corridor by the entrance hall. He couldn’t even find it in himself to be thankful the staircase had behaved. Perhaps he’d mastered the art of glaring them into submission, like Professor Snape seemed to do.

“For fucks sake, Col,” Dennis sighed in exasperation, gazing lazily around at the eerily quiet, empty classrooms. “Just because Potter is never going to go out with you, doesn’t mean that no one else is allowed a shot”. Colin knew his little brother didn’t mean to offend him, but still, that seemed a little unnecessary.

“Why are you here again, Dennis?” Ginny asked again, this time with an arched eyebrow.

“Listen, Dennis, I said that you could hang out with me, if you stopped saying that in public, Colin seethed, cutting in before Ginny really got going. He had tried any and all techniques to get his brother to stop going on about his first-year - and maybe continuing, but he’d never admit that to anyone - crush on Harry Potter. Colin had thought that a midnight adventure, Famous Five style, would finally do the trick. Apparently not.

Colin stormed over to the wall and began searching angrily by wand-light for the discoloured stone that would open the passage to the hallway near the Hufflepuff common room.

“What, that you fancy Potter?” Dennis crowed nastily, because he just couldn’t leave things alone once he got going. “It’s obvious to anyone who’s got eyes. You came home first year with all those photos, Col.” His annoying younger brother leaned against the wall, smirking as Colin spared a moment to gesture rudely at him before continuing his search of the wall. “Mum, Dad, look!” The brat continued, in a terrible impression of Colin’s excitable, pre-pubescent voice. “He’s the saviour of the wizarding world, and he’s so nice and funny, and he let me take all these photos of him”. Ginny shot Dennis a look and went over to help Colin’s search. This was why Colin liked Ginny; she was a good friend and better company than his little brother, anyway. Dennis, however, was not to be deterred, revelling in the opportunity to wind his brother up in front of Ginny Weasley, the best chaser Gryffindor since James Potter (or so Professor McGonagall said). “Here’s a photo of him at breakfast, here’s one of him coming out of Herbology, and here’s one where the professor vanished all of his bones when he broke his arm!” Dennis dropped the terrible impression and continued in a very dry tone. “You know, that’s just weird Col, no one takes a picture of a bloke when he’s broken his arm. That’s odd, mate.”

Colin sighed, leaning his head against the stonework, as Ginny smiled. He tried reminding himself that he did indeed love his little brother, and that he did not actually possess homicidal feelings for the little shit. It was not working.

“I know,” he half howled, finally turning his head to meet Ginny’s amused grin. “I was a terrible eleven year old with a crush and no social skills. It was a terrible plan to make him fall madly in love with me and sweep me away to his castle, that ended with me frozen solid in the hospital wing for half the year.”  
  


* * *

 

Ginny flinched, swallowing heavily as she busied herself scanning the wall for the stupid discoloured stone that just wouldn’t stay in the same place for any one minute. Although she knew, academically, that none of the events of her shitty first year were her fault, and that she was a child who was manipulated by the spirit of the most evil dark lord of the century, any reminder of the impact that Tom Riddle had on the lives of her friends made the old guilt settle deep within her stomach. She tried to push the thoughts away and focus on the here and now. Colin wasn’t to know, her involvement in the whole affair had been hushed up by Dumbledore, and Harry and Ron weren’t the type to gossip about what had gone down in the Chamber. Colin didn’t mean to awaken old memories. Besides, he was the one who got petrified, not her; if he wanted to deal by making glib jokes, then that was his right.

“You weren’t the only one with an embarrassing crush that year,” Ginny forced out through her dry throat, eternally grateful that Colin didn’t pick her up on how shaky she sounded, all of a sudden.

“Really?” Dennis chirped up, pushing off the wall in the desire for some gossip.

“Oh my God!” Colin suddenly exclaimed. “Oh my God, I just remembered something!” His eyes lit up with glee, and Ginny felt a wash of dread come over her. She and Colin had bonded, at some point in their second year, about their respective unrequited - and totally pitiful - crushes on the Boy-Who-Lived, and the completely embarrassing things they’d done to try and get his attention. Although it had felt good at the time to have someone that understood her complete and all-consuming mortification, she was painfully aware that Colin was one of the select few wizards that had the capacity to bring about her death by sheer humiliation. The evil glint in his eye brightened, as he saw her bristle in discomfort.

“Hem-hem,” he began, in an eerily good impression of Umbridge, before breaking out into a wide grin. “His eyes are as green as a fresh pickle…” Ginny launched herself across the corridor to cut him off, sheer desperation fuelling her flight.

“Don’t you dare, Colin Creevey!” she hissed at him, drawing her wand and blindly casting silencio , as he continued that dreaded song, in the vain hope that he’d just shut up.  
Colin dodged her spell, and winked at her. “The hero who conquered the dark lord!” He finally finished, dropping into an elaborate bow and bursting into giggles. The lack of a moving target meant Ginny was finally able to get off a stinging hex; Colin yelped and fell through the wall next to him.

“What was that?” Dennis asked, completely confused by the whole thing and looking rather wary about hanging round in a corridor with the girl who’d just cursed his brother into the stonework.

Ginny was pleased; he should fear her. She could cast a damn good hex and she’d only wanted the elder Creevey brother along for the night. Although she realised that wasn’t actually Dennis’s fault, and although she suspected that Colin had dragged him along to spite her, for some reason, she was not impressed at bringing Dennis along to hear about her most recent relationship crisis. So Ginny didn’t feel that guilty about hexing Colin. At all. Honestly.

She turned to Dennis with a wide grin, smiling as he looked a little nervous. “Something that shall never be spoken of again,” she told him sternly. Dennis caught on quickly and gave her a very emphatic nod, earning himself a smile of approval. That song, and all memory of it, should be, as far as Ginny was concerned, trapped in a Pensieve in the depths of Gringotts where no witch or wizard would ever venture. Although, she thought glibly to herself, knowing her luck, the goblins would release it and make a pretty galleon off the royalties. She was still flushed red with humiliation, when Colin stuck his head back through the wall.

“Hey guys, I found that stone we were after,” he laughed, dodging back through, as Ginny chased after him, wand drawn. On the other side, they stared each other down for a long minute, before bursting into giggles. They were still laughing a minute or so later, when Dennis came hurtling through the wall like it was the barrier at platform 9 ¾. He fell on his face with a loud thump, and groaned deeply.

“How have we not been caught by now,” he complained into the stonework of the floor. This was something that Ginny had been thinking to herself. It was very odd that they hadn’t stumbled into any patrolling teachers. It was almost as if they had decided en masse that patrolling after curfew was off for the night. Perhaps they were off having a firewhisky fuelled gobstones tournament- it’s what she’d be doing as a teacher, and Professor McGonagall was known to be a fearsome gambler. But, regardless of the reason why they hadn’t been caught, Ginny Weasley was never one curse a Phoenix for giving its tears. So she shrugged and hoped the luck would last long enough for her to consume some sugar.

“Sheer skills and stealth, little brother,” Colin answered instead, reaching out an arm and yanking Dennis to his feet. “Besides, I just realised that neither of us has a more embarrassing first year relationship than you.” Colin smiled and ruffled his younger brother’s hair. Ginny took a sensible step backwards; she had six brothers, and she knew the smirk growing on Creevey the Younger’s face was not good news.

“If you say the giant squid Col,” Dennis began, clearly delighting in the crestfallen look on his brother’s face, at having being so easily caught out, “I’ll have you know that we were both very happy together- brief as our love was- and that we parted on pretty good terms, all things considered.”

Ginny rather admired the kid’s ability to keep a straight face; she knew that falling into the lake before the sorting could either make or break one’s Hogwarts career, and Dennis was clearly still dining out on the fame of that particular adventure.

“The squid helped me out of the lake, Col, that’s true love. I can never be embarrassed by that,” Dennis finished with a wink. Ginny smiled back at him, acknowledging the point won against Colin. As the youngest of a veritable pack of siblings, she understood the importance of winning a few battles against a big brother.

“Well, you’ve got me there, Dennis,” Colin acknowledged wryly. “But you do raise an interesting concern. If we don’t get a move on, Professor Sprout is going to come along and feed us to that Tentacula she’s got in Greenhouse Three.” They all shared a quick look of horror, before hurrying along to the entry to the kitchens. According to the rumour mill, that Tentacula had killed a Defence Against the Dark Arts professor back in the early eighties. “Besides,” Colin continued in the same dry tone, after a minute to gather himself, “we still haven’t heard exactly what the foolish Mr Thomas did to warrant this particular little adventure.”

Ginny was so shocked she actually stopped in the middle of the hallway, and she had to jog slightly to catch up, before either of the boys noticed. She’d honestly forgotten that she was meant to be pissed off at Dean. The sudden reminder did not, however, lessen her irritation, which swarmed back unexpectedly, and to her consternation - much like the doxies did in the Order Headquarters last summer.

“I’ll tell you inside,” she grunted as they reached the portrait, and leant forwards to tickle the pear. With a bit of distance from the initial row, she was starting to question whether she might have over-reacted a little bit, and she did not want Colin to turn round and head back up to the tower, if he thought she was being silly. Which, she reminded herself with a shake, as she stepped through the portrait hole, she most definitely wasn’t.

It was dark in the kitchens, the House Elves long since having gone to bed or about their duties cleaning the common rooms. Ginny winced and cast a quick tempus; it was a lot later than she realised; they must have taken quite a while getting downstairs. Grateful that it was a Friday and they could all sleep off the consequences of their late night wandering, rather than suffering through classes the next day, Ginny settled in for a night of gossiping and ranting about her boyfriend. She lit the torches with a quick flick of her wand and started rifling through cupboards with the ease that only a daughter of Molly Weasley could have in the kitchen (even if she, herself, couldn’t actually cook anything in there). Colin joined her immediately and between them they found a leftover chocolate cake, a dozen jam tarts, and a jug of pumpkin juice. Dumping the lot on the table, Ginny grabbed one of the tarts and immediately launched into a tirade about Dean and the latest stage of their ‘football is better than Quidditch’ argument. She saw Dennis quickly lose interest and wander off to explore the kitchens. She resisted the urge to lob a tart at the back of his head.

“Wait, so let me get this straight,” Colin said slowly, when she finally paused for air and took a large bite of the raspberry tart in her hand. “We’re down here … in the kitchens … in the middle of the night … having one of our sacred bitching sessions, because you think that the West Ham four-one loss against Middlesbrough the other week was nowhere near as bad as the Harpies three hundred point loss to the Tornadoes last season.” Colin did not look anywhere near as sympathetic as Ginny had been anticipating. She declined to point out that he’d brought his little brother to their so-called bitching session, and so really couldn’t talk.

“Well yeah,” she replied quickly, sensing that she was losing her friend on this one already. “Dean plays Quidditch, alright, he gets it. So why he thinks one measly loss is anywhere near as cataclysmic as the game that cost us the entire fucking season is beyond me.” Colin raised an eyebrow and summoned a glass from one of the shelves. “His stupid football team have the whole league thingy ahead of them.” Colin raised the other eyebrow and stared her down. “Ron would understand.” She sighed bitterly, refusing to repent for dragging her friend from the common room in the dead of night over Quidditch. Some things were just that important. Her brother would get it, even if he was being a prick at the moment.

“Well, we aren’t talking to Ron at the moment, because he’s a sexist arse,” Colin reminded her glibly, pouring them both a glass of juice. “Besides, I think you’re all crazy anyway. The only game worth worrying about is Rugby, and the Five Nations doesn’t start until the New Year. So until then, there’s no point getting worked up - isn’t that right Dennis?” He looked around for support from his brother and seemed to noticed, for the first time, that he was not sat at the table with them. Instead he was staring into the fireplace in the corner of the room. Ginny followed Colin’s gaze and quirked her eyebrow up in confusion. Creevey the younger had a tendency to do slightly odd things, even by Hogwarts standards, but standing stock still in the corner of a practically empty room was particularly bizarre.

“Dennis?” Ginny called, proud that her tone conveyed more a sense of ‘are you alright?’ than ‘what the fuck?’ (for once). She smiled in what she hoped was a reassuring manner, when he twisted his head to look at them; she was feeling a little more benevolent to the tag-along, now that she’d got her rant out of her system. Colin stood up, seeming to sense something in his brother’s expression that she didn’t.

“Um, guys,” Creevey minor squeaked, turning around with a weird look on his face. “There’s someone in the fireplace.”

“Like in the floo?” Ginny asked as she got to her feet, she couldn’t see a fire, or smell a fire from where she stood, so maybe that was a stupid question. But then again, Fred and George had once spent a morning at the Burrow spying on their mum in the kitchen and making random ghostly wails from the dying embers of the living room fire. They drove her spare for hours, before she realised how they were doing it. Ginny spared a moment to frown at Colin’s disbelieving look (he did not grow up with the twins), before grabbing his shoulder and walking towards the fireplace.

“No.” Dennis’s voice wavered and somehow became even higher as he answered her. “Like a… person.” Ginny sighed in relief, even as Colin shook his arm free of her grasp and practically sprinted over to join his little brother.

“That’s just a house elf, Dennis,” she commented, walking idly the rest of the way over to the brothers. “They live in the kitchens and make the food and clean and stuff. Just don’t get Hermione started on…” She trailed off, as she stopped next to Colin and looked into the ancient stone fireplace herself. There, huddled in the corner, was not, as she had expected, a sleeping pointy-eared member of the Hogwarts staff. Instead, sat completely still and staring with wide, terrified eyes, was a teenager - a teenager with dark brown hair and eerily green eyes.

“That’s not a house elf.” Colin commented unnecessarily.

It would have been easy, however, to mistake the boy in front of them for one of the Hogwarts kitchen staff. He was wearing a bizarre combination of tunic and trousers, which looked as though they might have once been off-white and beige respectively, but were now so stained and torn that it was quite difficult to say for certain. He was also so painfully thin and covered in dirt and dust that it was hard to tell how old he was, although Ginny guessed that he wasn’t that much older than her and Colin. He had a stripe of soot up the side of his face from where he’d clearly been lying in the fireplace. Before that moment, Ginny hadn’t seen anyone look worse than Harry had after he’d rescued her from the Chamber of Secrets, or as thin as he had when he’d stayed with them the summer before her first year, but the boy in front of her gave the Boy-Who-Lived a run for his money on both counts, and came out miles ahead.

“Oh Merlin,” Ginny swore softly. She had absolutely no idea what to do in situations like this. This was the domain of Bill- the-eldest, Percy-the-prefect, or even Charlie-and-Ron-the-sometimes-surprisingly-astute. She did brooms. Brooms and hexes and nifty clever little charms, not terrified teenagers in fireplaces. She was midway through fending off a panic attack when Dennis stepped forward with a look of concern.

“Are you alright?” he asked the boy, reaching out. The stranger flinched back, clearly confused and scared, as he stared up at them all. Bile climbed at the back of her throat, and Ginny thought for a moment that she might be sick. The boy looked dreadful, and the bruises on his arms and neck made his reaction unhappily understandable. She stared at his arms for a moment or two before, suddenly, instincts of two summers spent in the company of the Order of the Phoenix rose up, and she flung an arm in front of Dennis, pushing him back and raising her wand.

“Are you a Death Eater?” She hissed slightly frantically, as Dennis and Colin snapped their heads around to look at her in alarm. They both seemed to realise the potential danger at the same time and threw their wands up in response. She tried to calm the herd of hippogriffs that had unceremoniously taken up residence in her chest and forced herself to listen to the logic that told her that a Death Eater was hardly likely to confess just because she’d asked. And not even that nicely.

“A…what?” The boy in front of them stuttered, confusion momentarily replacing fear, as he glanced away from Ginny’s wand point to look at her.

“A Death Eater?” She asked again, poking her wand at him. “Show us your arms!”

The boy snapped his eyes back to the wand now pointed inches away from his forehead and slowly rose his arms up in the air.

* * *

 

Sal was unimpressed, but he also had a strong sense of when to shut up, which, considering he was being held at wand point by a truly terrifying young witch, was probably the reason his mouth had yet to run away with him and say something stupid and antagonistic.

“I was…” he began haltingly, nearly going cross-eyed as the wand advanced towards the bridge of his nose. “I was t-told to come here … I d-did not mean t-to intrude on your…meal? I am sorry.” There, he’d been polite and hadn’t reacted to the dangerous weapon pointed between his eyes. It wasn’t unusual for him to be accosted for something he had not done and had no idea about, but it was usually by someone he knew, in his own home and during the day, not by complete strangers in someone else’s kitchen and when he had been trying to nap.

He had no idea who these people were, but they were clearly not Lords and Ladies of the castle, or they wouldn’t have felt so comfortable wandering around the kitchens in the early hours of the morning. This much he knew. He was intimately familiar with all varieties of kitchen and at all hours of the day. He had no real idea beyond that of who they were, or even where he was, for that matter. He had been ordered down to the kitchens minutes after the traveling party had landed in the castle’s entrance hall (apparently in the room next door to a feast) and his master had been greeted by an old man with a very long beard. He hadn’t been told where they were going before they’d left either, only instructed to collect the Lord’s pack and then ushered (with a few unnecessary kicks) to hold onto a large, carved piece of wood, along with the rest of the travelling party. He’d been able to identify his master, the Lord, and his Lord’s son, along with the two ladies and a variety of assorted servants in the group. He hadn’t been able to get a good look at the wood carvings before he heard one of the ladies announce something unintelligible in Latin and he was suddenly ripped off his feet by the most horrendous tug in his navel. He was knocked about by swirling magic for a bit, until he and the rest of the party were spat out of the vortex at the feet of the old man (who he assumed was an acquaintance of his master). The Lady Ravenclaw had been experimenting with instantaneous transportation for some time, so he could only assume she’d finally succeeded. It was fascinating; her work could be the most exciting magical discovery since the druids found out how to shapeshift into animals. Not that he was meant to know anything about such things, of course. He was meant to fetch and carry, and to only use his magic as his master commanded - which was mainly to fetch and carry.

He tried edging back a little further and was nearly poked in the eye by the wand of one of the boys. The tall one, he assumed, although it was difficult to tell through the water pooling in his eye.

“Stay where you are!” the elder boy commanded, and Sal froze in fear. He was not naturally good at following orders, but the instinct to obey any command had long since been beaten into him.

The girl turned to look at her friend with respect; she seemed to be in charge of the group, which was odd for a woman. Perhaps she was on the cook’s staff; few men would dare challenge a member of the kitchen staff in her own domain, woman or not. He peered up at them carefully, dropping his gaze back to the ground when they noticed and glared at him. Again, some things he had learnt to do the hard way. He could see that they all seemed to be wearing the same clothing- a livery of sorts, perhaps? He didn’t dare look at them long enough to properly identify the crest on their robes, but he assumed that they were servants of some form in the castle that his master had brought him along to. Technically, by rule of social graces and aside from any difference in social standing between them, this would place them in a position of authority over him. Even so, he didn’t appreciate being held at the end of a wand for following his master’s damned orders.

He held his arms up higher, turning them slightly so that the group could get a good look at them. He wasn’t sure what they were looking for. Most brands were placed on the breast or back; at least they were where he had grown up, and where he was currently living. Although, thinking about it, he had no idea of knowing if he were even in the same part of the world anymore. His own brand, the hideous ‘S’ that marked him as a slave - and a slave who had attempted to run away, at that - lay just over his heart. They weren’t going to find anything other than dirt and bruising on his arms. They apparently seemed to realise this, as he heard one of them sigh in apparent relief. Maybe they were searching for a particular mark, a sign of clan allegiance, perhaps?

“Colin, he doesn’t have a Dark Mark,” the girl pointed out, lowering her wand and waiting for the other two to follow suit.

Sal refused to relax at all; he had no idea if they were done with him and absolutely no desire to incur their ire by moving before he was told to. He stayed still, crouching in the corner of the fireplace, arms still stretched out in front of him and eyes submissively lowered to the ground, waiting for them to make a move or to tell him what to do. It wasn’t, perhaps, the most dignified of positions, but Sal had long since resigned himself to a wide variety of humiliations and indignities.

“What’s your name?” The girl sighed. “What are you doing here?”

She clearly had no idea what was going on. Sal knew he did not look like a respectable member of anyone’s staff, so he thought it must be rather obvious what he was doing sleeping in the kitchens. It wasn’t as if anyone was going to roll out a sleeping mat for him, was it? He sighed and started to lower his arms, very slowly, before he realised that they were seemingly done with their investigation, and dropped them back to his sides.

“Sal,” he replied quietly. He hoped she wasn’t expecting anymore; that was all he had to give her. His eyes flickered up to glance over the other three, before returning to the ground. “I was t-told to come d-down here.” There, nice and simple, they could hopefully infer the rest and decide he wasn’t worth their time. He didn’t offer anything else.

“What House are you in?” the older boy asked. He sounded genuinely curious. Sal noticed, from the corner of his eye, that the tall one had reached over to grab the younger one’s shoulder. He suspected some kind of familial relation then, or at least a close bond- only brothers in the shield wall, or close kin, would stand with such casual familiarity. Sal looked up properly then and eyed the group warily, as he inched slightly away from them into the confines of the fireplace.

“I belong to Gryffindor,” he stated quietly. He nodded at the crest on their robes, finally having chance to identify the coat of arms. “As, I see, do you.”

“Yeah, we’re Gryffindors,” the younger boy agreed with a sigh of relief. The older boy shook his shoulder slightly and shushed him.

This was confusing and unexpected. Unless his master had suddenly hired three new servants in the time between exiting the magical transportation vortex and retiring to bed, then Sal was not entirely certain these people should be bearing his master’s family crest so casually. Also, thinking about it, their long black robes were not any servants’ livery that he was familiar with. In short then, Sal had no idea who these people were, or why they were claiming allegiance to his master’s house. Perhaps they had been gifted from their host’s staff? They must be in the home of a very great lord if he were able to spare three young members of his retinue to serve his guests, and to dress them in a brand new livery, just for the occasion. If it wasn’t that he’d heard and felt his Lord’s anger at the King’s endeavours for a unified England (so-called ‘messing round and trying to steal everyone’s damn land’), and thus understood how greatly his master hated his ruler, Sal would have suspected that he was in the King’s own home. Sal concluded that he was suitably impressed and decided that if he were allowed to leave the kitchens for one moment during their visit, he would seek out the castle’s Lord and be the most well-behaved, efficient, kindly little slave under the skies, in the hope that said Lord might take a fancy and purchase him from his master. He would be free one day, and it would not be when he was an old man too worn down with age, illness, and toil to live any of his life; it would be soon, in a matter of years. Sal told himself this every night; sometimes it was the only thing that allowed him to sleep. But until he was free, he’d prefer to live in a bit of luxury, serving in a fancy castle that had a plethora of well-dressed staff available to share the workload.

* * *

 

Having determined that the boy was not a Death Eater and was, apparently, a member of their own house, Colin decided to tackle the next issue head on.

“So, why are you in the kitchens and not up in the Tower then?” he asked the boy, ignoring the blatant hypocrisy of his own question. Sal looked confused and went to speak, but was cut off by Colin’s next question, which seemed to barrel on from the first, before he could stop it. “Also, why aren’t you in uniform?” The boy frowned and went to speak again, but this time it was Dennis that cut him off.

“Why are you sat in the fireplace?” his younger brother burst out, far too loudly for being out of bounds after curfew. Colin glared and shushed him immediately.

“If you’d let me speak, I’d answer you,” the boy, ‘Sal’, bit out waspishly, before going completely pale and snapping his eyes back to the floor. There was a moment of silence where Ginny and Colin stared at each other in confusion. The boy was clearly expecting someone to say or do something and it was only after a full minute or so of silence that he continued. “Sorry, I… Sorry,” he continued in a much more subdued tone, “I was t-told to come d-down here, no one said anything ab-bout the Tower and I am afraid that no one t-told me we were meant t-to be wearing a uniform or livery.” He then glanced at Dennis in what could have been sympathy or amusement, but the emotion faded from his face before Colin had the chance to read it properly. “The f-fireplace is the warmest spot in the kitchen, after it’s b-been lit all d-day,” he stated simply.

Well, that was just plain odd. Colin did not quite know what to do with that remark, and was beginning to think the whole thing was another Hogwarts mystery that he most definitely did not want to get involved with. He knew that they needed to get a teacher, or a prefect, but then they would be in loads of trouble for being out past curfew. They needed to find someone in authority who could handle strange teenagers lurking in the kitchens without shoving the whole lot of them in detention until Christmas. Of course, it was then that the boy, Sal, or whatever he’d called himself, decided to put the cat among the pigeons, with one simple sentence.

“If Lord Gryffindor sends anyone d-down here for me, I’d appreciate it if you woke me up, I’m not sure I’m meant to be sleeping and I’m in no mood for a f-flogging,” Sal spoke quietly, and slumped against the stone of the fireplace, closing his eyes. He had apparently decided that he was done with them, regardless of whether or not they were done with him.

Colin felt his jaw fall open, unsure that he’d actually just heard that. The boy had just mentioned being flogged, which was disturbing in and of itself, and brought back memories of Umbridge and her threats that he’d much rather forget all about. Besides, he’d mentioned Lord Gryffindor, which even a muggleborn like Colin knew was ridiculous. There hadn’t been a Lord Gryffindor kicking about since the time of the Founders. The boy must have been knocked round the head, or perhaps hit with a solid confundus. Colin shared a long look with Ginny. Regardless of whether or not this stranger was under some kind of curse or potion, or if there were some wacky Hogwarts hijinks at play that he very much did not want to deal with, this was something he knew that none of them had the capacity to handle. He’d seen bruises on the boy’s arms, when they’d been looking for the Dark Mark. This was so far above his pay grade, Colin was sure he’d be moving up a whole tax bracket.

“We need to get a teacher,” he whispered, feeling a bit sick. He ushered Dennis and Ginny away from the corner, back towards the table and the long since abandoned spoils. He shoved a tart in his brother’s hands and ran his fingers through his hair in distraction. “We’re gonna be in so much trouble,” he hissed into the silence of the kitchen.  
Ginny crossed her arms and leant against the table. They stared at each other for a long moment, trying to use the power of two brains to come up with a solution that wouldn’t lead to their expulsion and consequential wand-snapping. Or at least Colin was; he had no idea what Ginny was thinking. He was panicking slightly. Who would be the best to go to? Professor Sprout was closest, of course, and then there’d be Professor Snape, or was Professor Slughorn living in the dungeons, now that he was teaching Potions? Colin had no idea. Professor McGonagall would certainly know what to do, and the boy had said he was a Gryffindor. But the thought of going to their Head of House and confessing that they found a random teenager - who was spouting nonsense about dead wizards - whilst on a late night jolly to the kitchens, was sapping more than a little of Collin’s supposed Gryffindor courage. Besides, last year’s activities had left him more than a little wary of authority figures; he wasn’t certain he felt comfortable going to any of the teachers: at all. That left prefects. That was not a pleasant thought.

“He doesn’t look very well,” Dennis noted quietly, picking at the tart in his hands and bringing Colin back to reality, “He looks…like someone’s been hurting him.” Colin swallowed thickly; although that was a legitimate point, it was something he had been trying very hard to push to the back of his mind, because he was very much not equipped to deal with things like that. That was more Ginny’s territory, or rather her brother’s. Ron was good at handling people who were hurt; he didn’t have a thief’s chance in Gringotts with romance, but he handled people in pain very well. Or at least, he’d handled Harry well through most of last year’s hideousness. Colin eyed the boy curled up in the corner of the room and tried very hard not to make any further comparisons with the Gryffindor Quidditch Captain.

“He looks like Harry,” Ginny noted quietly, leading his thoughts straight back to places he did not want them to be. She noticed his consternation, and quickly explained herself. “I mean, well not really, but the hair…and you must have noticed the eyes?” She glanced over at Sal, and Colin wearily nodded in understanding. Dennis frowned up at the two of them as if they were crazy, although he didn’t struggle as Colin pulled him into his side for a quick hug. Dennis glanced at the boy in the fireplace and then nodded back at his older brother in agreement. That did it, Colin thought to himself, if the others thought so too…

“We need Ron,” Ginny decided firmly. Colin blinked; apparently they had not been thinking the same things about Harry Potter’s gorgeous eyes at all.

“What?” Colin almost shouted, before remembering that they were out after curfew and quickly lowered his voice to a whisper. “I thought we weren’t speaking to Ron?”

“Well,” Ginny said as the beginnings of an evil grin spread over her lips, “he’s a prefect; he should probably act like it occasionally.” This, Colin could accept. He might not like prefects, but Ron Weasley was so notoriously lax in his duties, he could be considered downright neglectful. Colin had been forced to drag his little brother away from Fred and George’s product experiments a few times last year, whilst their younger brother sat around until Hermione Granger came into the room. A little midnight reminder of his responsibilities might not hurt Ron, and he might forget to give them detention in the process. Besides, hadn’t he just been thinking about Ron Weasley’s amazing capacity to wrangle an irate Harry Potter?

“Right,” Colin sighed, mind made up. “Who’s braving the gauntlet back to Gryffindor Tower then?”

* * *

 

A quick whispered debate sent Colin back up to the dormitory to fetch Ron; it’d nearly come down to a knut toss, before Ginny’d reminded Coin that she and Ron weren’t on speaking terms, and that anyway, it would be a bit weird if she went sneaking into her older brother’s dorm in the middle of the night. So Colin had gathered up his Gryffindor courage and bolted out of the portrait hole like he had a dragon on his tail. In the meantime, she and Dennis stood about in awkward silence. She busied herself poking at the ganache coating on the remains of the chocolate cake, and exchanged casual comments with Dennis about the upcoming Slytherin match to pass the time. It seemed like Colin had been gone for hours - she had nearly run out of ways to agree with the younger Gryffindor that, yes, Harry Potter could indeed fly very well - when Colin finally came through the portrait again, bringing Ron in tow. Only he wasn’t alone. Following after Ron, in a way that shouldn’t have surprised anyone who’d been at Hogwarts for the past few years, came a sheepish looking Harry Potter and a pissed off Hermione Granger.

“Hi guys,” Ginny smiled, shooting a look at a very apologetic Colin Creevey. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“They were all sat in the common room when I got back,” Colin whispered, as he cringed away from Hermione’s disapproving glare. “I had to explain to your brother, and then they all insisted on coming.” Knowing Harry and Hermione, Ginny thought, that made an unfortunate amount of sense. She gave Colin a quick once over; he actually seemed a lot calmer than before, which was unexpected after braving the open corridors all the way to Gryffindor Tower and back. DA lessons aside, she had not expected her friend to be handling this so well; he had a tendency to get a bit over-excited when he was nervous. She herself had one horrendously traumatic experience with a possessed diary, a summer or two of proximity to battle-hardened veterans, and a terrifying fight in the Ministry (that she had no idea how she survived) under her belt, and she was really freaked out. She could not imagine how the two brothers were feeling at finding some random teenager alone in the middle of the kitchens, in the middle of the night. She decided to cut Colin a little slack for the unintended entourage.

“It’s not a problem,” Ginny insisted, blatantly ignoring the glare from Hermione that said that it was, in fact, a problem, and instead ushered them all over to the corner. “I’m hoping Colin’s filled you in on the details, because I don’t know how else to tell you that we found some randomer having a kip in the kitchens.”

“Huh,” Ron said, crouching down to look at the boy huddled against the stonework. “I though Colin was having us on.”

“We should get a teacher,” Hermione insisted, and Ron and Harry rolled their eyes in unison. If Ginny knew her friends at all - which after a summer of close confinement at the Burrow, she very much did - they had been hearing the same sentence all the way down from Gryffindor Tower.

Harry moved forwards to stand next to Ron and stared down at the boy in front of them. They both had odd expressions on their faces. Ginny knew her brother well enough to read the anger starting to simmer behind his eyes. Harry, well Harry was always difficult to read, unless he was absolutely furious. But Ginny thought he almost looked…sympathetic? Ginny also knew enough about her brother’s friend (who was practically a Weasley after all) to know that some things in his past were Very Bad and were Not Spoken About. She knew enough to know that it involved his relatives and her mum’s mass baking sessions towards the end of July every year, but anything beyond that and everyone, adults and siblings alike, would become tight-lipped. Plus, Harry himself would never talk about it. But watching him look at the boy in front of them made a large and very cold stone sink into Ginny’s stomach and take up residence there for the foreseeable future.

“Hey mate,” Ron began quietly, reaching out to shake the boy in the fireplace awake. As soon as his hand touched Sal’s shoulder, Sal’s eyes sapped open and he jerked away as far back as possible into the fireplace, hissing like an angry cat. Ron fell back on his arse in surprise, looking like a stunned Errol, after he forgot the window was closed again.

“Well that was a bit rude, mate.” Harry said, crossing his arms and looking both amused and slightly insulted. “We didn’t mean to scare you or anything, just wanted to check you’re alright.” He looked at the others, as if seeking reassurance and they all nodded frantically.

The boy inched further back and Hermione clasped her hands over her mouth looking close to tears.

“He’s clearly terrified, Harry. We need to get a teacher,” she whispered from behind her hands. Ron shot her a quick glance and shook his head. Harry however, quirked a wry grin at her.

“Pretty sure he’s just pissed off at being woken up, Hermione,” Ginny said, as she stepped forwards. “He only just went to sleep.” She looked over at Colin and Dennis to confirm her story and found them staring at their feet; they both seemed to have gone completely silent in the presence of the older students, or at least in the presence of Hermione … whilst out of bounds in the middle of the night.

She was just about to laugh at their fright (because, come on, it was only Hermione) when the portrait hole slammed open and made them all jump like they’d taken a stinging hex.

“A sentiment, I’m sure I can sympathise with, Miss Weasley.” The voice sliced through the room like a well-cast curse, and Ginny nearly jumped out of her skin. Ron, Hermione, and Harry all tensed, whilst she was pretty sure Colin let out a small squeak. They all turned with a sense of impending doom to see Professor Snape stood in the portrait hole, with a smug looking Draco Malfoy by his side.

“Oh Merlin,” Colin swore, looking a little faint. Ginny quietly agreed; they were going to be in so much trouble.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next chapter edited and updated. Please read and review, and let me know what you think.   
> TW for physical abuse of a teenager and discussion of slavery.

Draco Malfoy had not had a very good summer. In fact, it had been the worst summer of his life. He could safely say, without any hyperbole or exaggeration, that the last few months had been so intolerably miserable, that he had even started counting down the days until he would be able to return to school. Not even the thoughts of months of lessons, of teachers, or even of petty children (who had no comprehension of the war that was breathing down their necks like an impatient dragon) could still his anticipation. It wasn’t just that his father had failed in his mission - and then been arrested in front of half the Ministry of Magic - that caused his holiday to go sideways, or even the fact that aurors hounded his and his mother’s steps if they dared to leave the house. He had far greater reasons to hate every moment trapped in his room in the manor, avoiding his homework. Because Draco Malfoy had caught the attention of the Dark Lord, and that was a very dangerous thing indeed.

Of course it was also a great honour that he, above all others and at the tender age of sixteen, had been given the dark mark and set to do the Dark Lord’s bidding. His Aunt Bellatrix told him endlessly about how proud she was of him, interspersed with crowing recollections (in vivid detail) of how she had duelled and killed Sirius Black: her cousin. Draco did not know how to feel about his aunt; she was clearly unwell and suffered greatly during her time in prison, but her faith in the Dark Lord verged on the fanatical. Also, regardless of how much of a filthy blood traitor his mother’s cousin had been, he had still been _family_. So Draco had done his level best to stay as far away from his aunt as possible, and had therefore avoided a great many arguments with his mother about respecting Auntie Bella.

An unexpected and very welcome consequence of becoming hyper-conscious of his aunt’s every move was that it helped him stay out of the Dark Lord’s immediate attention. She was permanently falling at the feet of their master and fawning over his every word. As her nephew, and someone who had been raised with good, old-fashioned values regarding the sanctity of marriage, this repulsed him; as a teenager trying to avoid the focused attention of the greatest dark wizard since Slytherin himself, it was a blessing that he remained very grateful for. It wasn’t that he was afraid of the Dark Lord. Draco had, after all, been brought into his service and mercifully been granted the opportunity to save his family’s honour after his father’s shameful failure. But the Dark Lord was still the Dark Lord, and Draco would be a fool to not be wary of that.

As such, he had been unable to relax all summer and had been looking forward to releasing some tension baiting Potter and his cronies come September. He had immensely enjoyed breaking Potter’s nose on the train, but it was still insufficient revenge for the embarrassment that his little study group had caused the Malfoy family at the Ministry. So when - on his way back to the Slytherin dorms in the middle of the night, and after another failed attempt with the vanishing cabinet in the room of hidden things - Draco happened to spot Potter, Weasel, and the Mudblood following another Gryffindor boy into the kitchens, he knew that he had the perfect opportunity for vengeance. He knew that Professor Snape did not really believe his story that he had stumbled upon them during ‘prefect rounds’, but Draco strode away from his Head of House’s office, side by side with his favourite professor, knowing that the older man would be far more interested in catching Potter up to mischief to care. Besides, his mother had told him that Professor Snape would help him, that he was loyal to the Dark Lord no matter what Aunt Bella said. So if all else had failed, he could have thrown himself on the mercy of his mission to avoid detention. But that would have been a last resort: Malfoy’s do not plea for mercy.

When the two of them had reached the kitchens, he had immensely enjoyed watching the bunch of assorted Gryffindors jump out of their skins, although he had not expected the girl Weasel and the other two non-entities to be hiding behind the portrait too. Professor Snape had flayed them alive for being out of bed, and Draco had gleefully enjoyed watching Potter get punished for something he had been equally guilty of. Draco was a proud and unrepentant hypocrite, and knew that he would remain so until he died. It was only when the Mudblood opened her mouth to say something that Draco felt a need to step in; he refused to allow filth like her to say anything in his vicinity unless it was absolutely necessary, or distressingly unavoidable.

“Professor,” he spoke quietly, smirking at Potter’s irate expression, as the Mudblood snapped her mouth shut in outrage. “It’s awfully late; perhaps we could head to bed soon?” The Professor turned to look at him, his flat expression informing Draco that he was laying things on a little too thickly and should leave it there, before giving him a slight nod.

“Indeed, Draco,” Professor Snape replied, turning back to the group of blood traitors and Mudbloods. “Fifty points from each of you and a week’s detention.”

Draco actually sniggered at the punishment, delighting as the Gryffindors moaned in dismay. If he were still concerned with such petty things as house points – which he was not, having moved onto far bigger things over the summer – then he would have noted with glee that Gryffindor would have just dropped down to twenty points. But, he wasn’t concerned with such childish pursuits, so he didn’t notice – obviously.

“Get out of my sight,” Professor Snape continued, “and if you make a single detour on your way up to bed, you will be scrubbing cauldrons until Christmas!”

Draco outright grinned as the two non-entities all but ran out the room, heads bowed and eyes so focused on the floor that Draco was convinced that he’d get to watch one of them run into the wall. He looked back at the others. Potter, the Weasels, and the Mudblood were still stood in the same place, forming a protective huddle in the back of the room. Foolish Gryffindors, Draco thought, safety in numbers will not protect you from Professor Snape. 

“Professor-” the Mudblood began to say, but was cut off again, much to Draco’s glee, this time by his Head of House.

“I do not doubt, Mr Potter,” Professor Snape began, glaring at the Boy-Who-Lived and completely ignoring the Mudblood, “that you think yourself above every other student in this school.” Draco would have to send the professor a thank you card after tonight - he hadn’t been this entertained for months. He smirked, as Potter bristled like an angry kneazle. “You have, after all, shown a careless disregard for the rules from the very first moment that you set foot in this building.” Draco nearly snorted, undignified as it was, but Professor Snape’s tone was sharp enough to cut diamond. Potter looked ready to throw a curse, both Weasels had gone bright red, and the Mudblood’s hair looked as if it had grown even frizzier, in response to her rage. The professor smiled maliciously and stalked closer to Potter.

“I would have thought,” Professor Snape continued softly, “that recent events might have taught you the necessity of _doing as you are told_. But perhaps it is simply too much to ask of the Chosen One. Apparently scurrying about the kitchens in search of a midnight feast is far more important to the Boy-Who-Lived.”

Potter all but snarled. Draco would have bet whatever galleons he had left to his name that the idiotic Gryffindor would have thrown away his wand and launched himself like a muggle at the professor, had the Mudblood not intervened.

“Professor Snape,” she snapped abruptly, sounding rather like Professor McGonagall did when Draco had forgotten his homework. “Harry is not scurrying anywhere, and we are not down here for a midnight feast!” She sounded quite angry on Potter’s behalf, Draco noted. The girl Weasel flushed and looked guilty, as Professor Snape raised an arm and pointed at some half eaten snacks on the table; whatever they said, _someone_ had been down here for food. “Sir, there’s something we need to show you,” the Mudblood continued, flapping her hands to cut off the outraged cries of Potter and Weasel. Well, Draco thought, this could be interesting. “No Harry,” she continued, looking apologetically at Potter, “I know what you’re going to say, but we need to trust Professor Snape. This isn’t something we can deal with on our own!” She stepped aside and glared at the others until they followed suit. Draco blinked, waited a moment and then blinked again, his brain not quite processing something so entirely unexpected. He had thought they’d be hiding some kind of creature, an injured house elf or, he thought with remembered terror, another dragon. But instead it was something somehow even more bizarre. There, crouched in the fireplace and looking particularly feral, was a teenage boy.

Well, Draco thought, this was indeed interesting.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry cursed under his breath, as Hermione shooed them out of the way of the fireplace. He loved her like a sister, but she was far too trusting of authority figures. Hadn’t she just heard what Snape said about Sirius? He had just stood there, having a go at Harry, as per usual, acting as if hadn’t taunted his schoolyard rival out of Grimmauld Place and in front of the waiting wand of Bellatrix Lestrange. Besides, Harry was pretty certain that the bloke in the fireplace was not going to react too well to a bastard like Snape. He’d woken up swearing blindly at them all, and seemed to have a bit of a temper, even if he was scared out of his mind and half-awake.  Harry knew from five years of constant, mutual loathing that that kind of personality would clash loudly with the austere Potions Master. Or Defence Master- whatever he hell he was calling himself now, anyway. He knew he should probably say something to explain what the hell they were doing, but he wasn’t certain he’d be able to manage it without swearing at Snape, so he wisely kept his lips firmly sealed.

“Me, Colin, and Dennis found him, earlier,” Ginny said quietly, finally breaking the silence, as Snape and Malfoy looked on in shock. “We’d come to the kitchens for a… snack. As soon as we found him and checked he was… alright, Coin went to get a prefect.” Harry sent up a silent prayer of thanks for Ginny’s nerves under pressure when Snape accepted her simple explanation with a silent nod. He hoped that Snape was too shocked at the presence of the odd boy to wonder why Colin hadn’t gone looking for Professor McGonagall instead, or to question Harry on why he had accompanied Ron and Hermione (especially as he was the furthest thing from a prefect left in Gryffindor Tower, now that Fred and George were gone). Snape turned his attention back to the boy in the fireplace and Harry breathed a sigh of relief. Ginny noticed and smiled at him; Harry nearly forgot how to breathe. The strange purr that had been rising up in his chest since summer came back with a sudden roar, and Harry knew he was in trouble.

He’d been oddly pleased earlier when Ginny and Dean had started a massive row in the middle of the dormitory. He’d come up late, after Professor McGonagall had caught him in the entrance hall after dinner; he had been trying to hang back and listen to what the teachers were talking about. She’d escorted him up to the common room and told him in no uncertain terms that, Quidditch captain or no, he’d be in detention for the next month if she caught him out of the Tower for the rest of the night. He’d sulked all the way up to the dorm, pissed off that he’d only managed to overhear Professor Sprout say something about Ravenclaw and portkeys before he’d been whisked away. After throwing himself on his bed in a huff, he had immediately spotted Ginny sat on Dean’s bed, which had then put him in a right foul mood. When they’d started rowing about football, he had peaked over the charms book that he was reading and started listening a bit closer. He tried to tell himself that it was a brotherly relief that he was feeling, when he watched Ginny leap off her boyfriend’s bed and storm out of the room, but he was fighting a losing battle.

He smiled stupidly at the memory and caught himself quickly. Thankfully Professor Snape stalked forwards and pushed them out of the way, in order to get a closer look at the teenager, so Harry could glare at the back of the greasy git’s head and try not to think at all about Ginny. Harry knew he should be leaving thoughts of Ginny Weasley far from his mind; she was Ron’s sister, after all. Besides, he was now half convinced that she’d dumped Dean for one or the other of the Creevey brothers, so unless he found something else to occupy his thoughts, he might start fantasising about hexing them whenever they came within five feet of her. Merlin, he had a problem.

“Harry,” Hermione hissed, shaking his arm and dragging him back to the teenager-shaped elephant in the room. He flushed in embarrassment, and hoped that Ron was too preoccupied to notice him gaping aimlessly like a troll at his little sister. 

Snape was crouching down in front of the boy, wand out but not pointing anywhere. He was moving very slowly, like the boy was a wounded hippogriff, although he looked furious. Harry glanced around to see the others’ reactions. Hermione was holding onto his arm with a grasp that was beginning to hurt, Malfoy was hovering awkwardly in the background, and Ron had not looked more serious since the time that the Cannons’ sneaker had taken a bludger to the head the practice before their Kestrels match. Harry forced himself not to look at Ginny, at all.

“What’s your name?” Snape asked the boy sternly.

The boy was wide-eyed, gaze focused on Snape’s wand, as he took a quick fortifying breath.

“Sal, sir,” he answered quickly.

“Your full name,” Snape clarified sharply, tapping his wand against his leg in irritation. The boy flinched every time the wand moved, and Snape stilled abruptly.

The boy, Sal, looked around at them all in confusion. Harry tried his best to look reassuring, but considering he got an odd look in return, he doubted that he’d done a very good job of it. Snape cleared his throat in irritation, getting impatient at the lack of response. Malfoy snorted. Harry sent him a blistering glare.

“I’m sorry, sir” the boy began meekly, “I d-don’t know what you mean, sir.” He looked up at Snape in desperate confusion, and Harry felt a sudden, deep sense of sympathy. He had been in the same position enough times, terrified and perplexed, saying words of a similar nature. Although, he’d never felt anywhere near as scared when he was stood in front of Snape as he did with his Uncle Vernon. He went to step forwards, about to tell Snape where to shove his questions, when Hermione shook his arm again and sent him a look that told him to stay put. He was about to object, when he saw Ron shake his head. With a quiet sigh, he narrowed his eyes in disapproval, allowing things to play out. But, he promised himself, if he saw Snape about to try anything, he was going to get involved: teacher or not.

“Your full name, you foolish child,” Snape demanded, rolling his eyes. “You do have one, I assume?”

The boy looked at him blankly for a second, before he leaned back slightly. His eyes flickered round the room. He was reassessing, Harry realised; he’d figured something out. The realisation made him look a bit closer at the boy in front of them. Harry hadn’t read him as a threat, but then again, he hadn’t seen Mad Eye Moody as one either – not until he’d turned out to be a polyjuiced Barty Crouch Junior.

“That is my full name, sir,” the boy replied simply. Harry hadn’t heard of anyone in the wizarding world who only went by one name, aside from House Elves that was – apparently, neither had Snape.

“I will not tolerate cheek, boy,” Snape hissed and the boy flinched again. “Now tell me the truth.”

“P-please, sir,” the boy began, looking terrified, “I’m t-telling you the t-truth. That’s my name, as I was b-baptised.” Snape sniffed and glared at him.

“What house are you in?” He demanded in exasperation. Harry was almost impressed; he hadn’t found anyone that annoyed Snape as much as he did since fourth year, the year that Neville had somehow stopped making his potions explode if he were left unattended for longer than five minutes.

“I b-belong to Gryffindor, sir,” the boy replied, looking slightly relieved. Harry couldn’t tell if he was happy that Snape had stopped prying into a fake name, or that he had been given a question he could answer.

“He’s not a Gryffindor,” Hermione said suddenly. Snape spun to look at her, annoyed at the interruption. “Well, it’s just, since I became a prefect,” she carried on, masterfully ignoring Snape’s withering glare, “I’ve made a point of learning the faces of everyone in Gryffindor, and I don’t recognise him at all.”

“I’m not a Gryffindor, sir,” the boy hurried to explain, as Snape turned a furious glare back on him. “I b-belong to Gryffindor. I’m of his House.”

Harry had no idea what that was meant to mean, but apparently it explained something to Snape. His eyes widened as he looked the boy over again, apparently seeing him in a new light. Ron, however, was less concerned with what Snape had seen, and was instead staring at the boy like he was barmy.

“What do you mean, you aren’t a Gryffindor, but you belong to Gryffindor?” he asked with all of his usual tact. “Mate, you sound like a bloody sphinx!” Hermione hissed disapprovingly at the language, but shut up when Snape whirled around to glare at Ron, his robes snapping behind him.

“Weasley, be quiet!” he snarled. But the boy in the fireplace was already obediently answering the question.

“I mean that I b-belong to Lord Gryffindor,” the boy said simply. “I’m his slave.” He shrugged slightly, eyes flickering between them, looking for a reaction.

Harry didn’t know what to say. As ridiculous as it sounded, he half expected someone to appear with a muggle film camera and declare the whole thing a massive joke – like the people did on that VHS that Aunt Petunia’s friend Yvonne had bought for Dudley on her holiday in America. Uncle Vernon had been furious at her; he’d had to go and buy a special video player just to get it to play. He’d spent the whole morning muttering about stupid American imports and inconsiderate neighbours, and then whisked Aunt Petunia out for dinner whilst Dudley watched the tape, presumably to avoid being tainted by any of that ‘foreign rubbish’ he so hated. Dudley had grown bored and left it playing when he went out; Harry had watched the whole thing from the kitchen whilst doing the ironing. That programme was, quite frankly, one of the most muggle things he’d seen during the brief time he’d spent at Privet Drive over summer; yet he still found the idea that he’d somehow ended up the subject of one of their setups more plausible than the reality of the boy in front of him, saying those words with complete sincerity.

Malfoy scoffed, and crossed his arms in disbelief.

“Clearly someone has him under a _confundus_ ,” he announced imperiously. “I’d recognise one anywhere.”

Snape, however, did not seem so convinced by Malfoy’s diagnosis. He stepped back suddenly and walked over to the table, glaring at Harry as if whatever he had realised was both irritating and Harry’s fault. He then pulled out a miniature piece of parchment and self-inking quill from his robes and enlarged them, scribbling a quick note. Harry suspected that the Professor had realised something (before the boy dropped his bombshell) and that it was almost entirely to do with why they had been sent to their dorms after dinner. He tried to get a look at what Snape was writing on the parchment; but, before he got the chance, Snape signed it with an abrupt motion and flicked his wand at it. It folded itself up into a paper aeroplane and flew out of the room. Harry thought back to the memos flying round the Ministry of Magic, and thought that it was a nifty little spell that would be quite useful to learn.

“I have just notified the headmaster,” Snape explained as soon as the note had flown off. “We will await his response and then we will be resolving this matter in his office. Until then, none of you will speak another word. Am I clear?” He met each of their eyes individually, including Malfoy’s; Harry would have suspected him of using legilimency, had he not been intimately familiar with how it felt when Snape broke into his head.

Harry went to protest Snape’s command, but stopped at the look on Ron’s face. He had gone so white that his freckles were standing out over his nose in clear contrast. He was staring at the boy in the fireplace, looking vaguely sick. Harry glanced at Ginny and Hermione and saw that they both looked the same way.

Snape walked over to the corner and fixed the boy with a stern glare.

“And you,” he said quietly, “will please stand up. The fireplace is hardly an appropriate place to sit.” Harry couldn’t say for certain, because he was not sure that such a thing could actually be possible, but Snape almost sounded – kind. Or, at least, less of a mean bastard than usual.

The boy complied at once, standing up swiftly. He stood with his head bowed, eyes fixed firmly on the floor.

“I apologise, sir,” he said softly, “The stone is often warmer in the hearth, when the f-fire has been lit all day, sir. I d-did not mean to sit somewhere inappropriate-“

“Sir?” Malfoy mockingly finished the boy’s sentence for him. Harry went to snap at him to shut up, but Snape had already quelled him with a glare. Good, Harry thought to himself, serves the bullying little bastard right.

At that moment, a parchment aeroplane flew in through the portrait hole. Snape grabbed and unfolded it, quickly reading through the contents.

“All of you, to the headmaster’s office, immediately,” he commanded abruptly, stashing the note in his pocket. “I trust that I do not need to tell _you_ the way, Potter.”

Harry seethed, and shared a glare of outrage with Ron. If there was one thing, he thought to himself piteously, that could be relied upon no matter what the situation, it would be Snape’s eternal hatred of Harry Potter.

As they all started to file out of the kitchens, Harry noticed that the odd boy – who seemed to think he was the slave of an alive and kicking Godric Gryffindor (which Harry just could not get past) – had not moved with them. Snape, apparently, had noticed too.

“Come along,” he commanded.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the boy replied, staring at his feet. His whole body was tense. “I am supposed to stay in the kitchens.”

“According to whom?”

“My master, sir.”

“Well Professor Dumbledore has informed me that your master is in his office and that he is expecting you shortly.” Snape’s voice was curt but not unkind, although the boy still tensed at the mention of his ‘master’. The boy shifted from one foot to the other before nodding his head tightly. “Good, I will join you shortly,” Snape told him. “Please follow Mr Potter. If he insists on loitering to eavesdrop on the conversations of others, then he may at least be useful and show you the way.”

Harry blushed and glanced over his shoulder. The others had gone through the portrait hole already, leaving him incriminatingly alone with the Professor and the strange boy.

“Yes, sir,” the boy nodded, and Harry saved himself from further mortification by spinning on his heel and heading over to the portrait hole. He waited outside for the boy, unable to bear another minute in the same room as Snape. Not long after, the boy stepped through, looking intensely uncomfortable.

“You okay?” asked Harry, but the boy did not reply. He stood hunched into himself and his head hung low. He looked like Harry felt whenever he had fucked up around the house and heard his Uncle’s car pull up on the drive. “Mate?” he tried again, but the boy still stayed silent. Harry sighed and started leading him upstairs.

Harry tried his best to make conversation all the way up to Dumbledore’s office, but he couldn’t get a word out of the other boy. Harry suspected that, whilst he was waiting outside the kitchens, Snape had told the excessively obedient stranger not to talk to Harry.  Either that, or the bloke was just a rude git.

Harry had lapsed into a disgruntled silence. Something weird had been going on since dinner. Snape hadn’t seemed that surprised to find a random teenager squatting in the kitchens, so he must have been expecting there to be strangers around. He hadn’t even done any security checks, which seemed incredibly suspicious to Harry. Even if his git of a professor was a Death Eater – and, Harry reminded himself sternly, he trusted Dumbledore’s promise that Snape _wasn’t_ – he should still have asked him a bit more than his name and school house – even if it was just for show. No, Snape hadn’t wanted the stranger to say much at all. As soon as he’d started talking weirdly about Gryffindor, Snape had made them all shut up. So, his Professor knew what was going on, but didn’t want the rest of them to know too much about it – which was an irritatingly familiar position for Harry to find himself in. He gritted his teeth and forced back the old frustration that had plagued him all of last year. Getting angry would not help anything, it made him sloppy and stupid; he had learnt that the hard way. He forced himself to focus; the rest of the teachers had been gathering in the entrance hall after dinner, so he suspected that they had all been told something important then. He remembered the snippets that he’d overheard about portkeys and Ravenclaws, and nearly led them both down the wrong corridor. He dearly hoped that some students had been dicking around with illegal portkeys, and had been turning up all over the school spouting nonsense all evening. Because if they hadn’t, his only other conclusion was so completely fucked up that, prophecy be damned, he was leaving school and retiring to Antigua; at least if any ridiculous magical events found him there, he would face them with a decent tan.

Thankfully, before Harry could work himself up into a proper panic, they had found themselves in front of the gargoyle that guarded Dumbledore’s office, and he could busy himself reciting every sweet he could think of, from both the wizarding and muggle worlds. He had just tried his luck with ‘cola cube’ and was trying very hard to ignore the unimpressed look that the boy next to him had assumed after he tried ‘hundreds and thousands’ for the second time in under a minute, when Professor Snape came stalking down the corridor towards them.

“Acid pops,” he told the gargoyle promptly and it jumped aside with a jaunty bow. Harry felt that he really should have known that, considering how often he was in Dumbledore’s office for this year’s secret lessons. In fact, he realised with a blush, he should have remembered the password - it was only the other day he’d used it to get in. He ducked his head and followed Snape up into the room.

Harry stopped suddenly in the doorway, and caused the other boy to walk into him. Stepping aside to let him through, Harry muttered a quick apology and felt himself blush. The room was a lot fuller than he had anticipated. Ron, Hermione, and Ginny were stood in front of Dumbledore’s desk, which the headmaster himself sat behind, as usual; Hermione was saying something very quickly and very quietly to him, as if she were afraid of being cut off. Malfoy was lounging against a book case, arms crossed and sneering at the world in general; although as soon as Snape turned to look at him, he stood up straight and assumed an expression of polite disinterest. He had expected them all, of course. But what he had not anticipated were the three men stood over by the pensieve.

The oldest of the trio was also the tallest, although that wasn’t saying much, as all three of them were pretty short. He looked to be around Uncle Vernon’s age, although he looked like his complete opposite. He was slim and muscled, where Harry’s uncle was fat and beefy. He had long, dark brown hair, where Vernon considered anything longer than a short back and sides to be the province of hoodlums. He was dressed in a long, amber robe, held at the waist with a thick leather belt; Vernon Dursley would never be caught dead in anything so brazenly unmuggle.  He did, however, wear an expression of disapproval and distaste that was so uncannily similar to Uncle Vernon’s own, whenever he looked at his loathed nephew, that Harry caught himself attempting to flatten his hair out of sheer reactive instinct.

If Harry took an instant dislike to the older man, it was nothing compared to the automatic revulsion he felt for the man by his side. He looked like the young Wormtail that Harry had seen in Snape’s memory last year, only a decade or so older and about three stone lighter. But it was his smile that set Harry’s teeth on edge; he looked up at the older man with the same sycophantic smile that Peter Pettigrew had once given to James Potter. He was wearing a tunic and trousers, like the boy from the kitchens, only his were a deep blue and looked to be of a lot finer quality. He was also wearing odd-looking shoes that seemed halfway between a boot and a sandal. Harry had been staring at them for a good half a minute before he realised why they seemed so strange – the boy from the kitchens was walking around barefoot. Harry was feeling vaguely appalled and was all set to hate the strange group in its entirety, when the last man turned around. He had long reddish-brown hair and was dressed in deep red robes. He had a small, gentle smile on his face, and his gaze didn’t linger on Ginny as he looked about the room, which automatically endeared him to Harry. But it was what he wore around his waist that made Harry’s jaw drop open. Because there, sticking out of a long silver sheath and looking terrifyingly at home, was the very familiar, ruby encrusted hilt of the sword of Gryffindor.

* * *

 

Sal entered the room with his eyes fixed firmly on his shoes. He’d been so focused on the floor that he’d accidentally walked into the back of the boy who’d shown him the way up here. He’d felt rather rude ignoring the other boy, who seemed pleasant enough and had even offered him an apology for blocking the doorway. But, even if he hadn’t been under strict instructions from the austere man in the kitchen to remain silent, he had felt far too ill to be able to hold a conversation, ever since he had left the relative safety of the dungeon room. Knowing that his master was waiting for him, that he had been called out of bed to answer for his slave’s behaviour, was nothing short of terrifying. Sal took a deep breath, and clasped his hands tightly together behind his back. His hands were already shaking, if he didn’t control them soon, he knew the rest of him would follow.

There was a quiet gasp from his chaperone, who was still stood beside him. Sal raised his head slightly and peered up through his eyelashes to follow the boy’s gaze. Immediately seeing what it was that had shocked him, Sal snapped his eyes back to the ground and screamed a few creative curses in his head. His master was stood alongside both his son and one of his servants, Dunstan, holding court in the corner of the room. Sal winced and cursed his luck again; Dunstan was a malicious little demon of a man (named after the archbishop but with no holiness anywhere in sight) who delighted in making Sal’s life as miserable as conceivably possible. Sal couldn’t even applaud him for his ambition; his life was already rather pathetic, and it didn’t take much to make it any worse. He forced himself not to think about what Dunstan’s presence probably meant for him, and instead concentrated on keeping his breathing shallow, silent, and even.

The quiet murmuring that had filled the room slowly died down, and Sal closed his eyes against the incoming conversation and its inevitable consequences.

“Well, Lord Dumbledore,” his master’s voice rang out suddenly across the room. “I can assure you that that is indeed my slave. I have identified that he is no trespasser on your land. I assume that this will be the end of the matter.” His master’s tone was as cool and diplomatic as it ever was when he was managing disputes, or ordering executions. Sal winced.

The declaration fell heavily upon the silent room, and Sal resisted the urge to look up. He was desperately hoping that, whatever power play was going on between his master and this Lord Dumbledore, his own part in the night’s events would indeed soon be over. He waited, chin forcibly planted against his chest, as the seconds ticked tortuously on. Finally, when the silence seemed almost too much to bear, and Sal was just about to risk another glance upwards to see what was happening, the tension was broken by a quiet chuckle.

“Oh no, Lord…Gryffindor,” a strange man (presumably this Lord Dumbledore) answered his master, still sounding amused. “I am no lord. I am just a headmaster, a teacher.” The man’s voice was cultured and educated, crackling like old parchment. He caressed his words, rolling them out like smooth honey, each one carefully chosen and purposefully mild. Sal felt himself relaxing into the soothing balm of the strange voice and caught himself abruptly. This man was very, very dangerous.

Sal’s master did not seem immune to the man’s effect either, as when he next spoke, his words were noticeably calmer. “Indeed? You are not? Well, it is no matter,” he replied with a distracted air. “If that is all, my son and I shall retire to bed.”

Sal had been with his master for a number of years and so knew very well that his master was not anticipating any argument. The fact that he had not already left the room was merely a necessary adherence to etiquette. Sal breathed a sigh of relief; he was not expecting this to be dragged out much longer. He did not usually pray, but Sal swore that if his master continued to ignore him and his role in this whole debacle then, the minute he was alone, he would drop to his knees and thank the heavens until he was blue in the face.

“There is still the matter of the child, Lord Gryffindor,” Dumbledore stated firmly, and Sal cursed every angel and saint that he knew, in his head. He’d probably just lost any hope of suddenly becoming pious and rescuing his immortal soul, but then again he had long since been damned in this life, let alone the next.

“The child?” Lord Gryffindor asked in genuine confusion, before realising to whom he was referring. Sal felt the moment that his master turned his attention towards him, as heavy dread settled over him like a cloak. “You mean my slave?” Sal was used to the disgust in his master’s voice whenever he was being spoken of, or spoken to, but apparently others were not. There was a chorus of gasps and hisses around the room; in the presence of his master, Sal had completely forgotten about the other children from the kitchen.

“The _child_ ,” Dumbledore insisted sternly, sounding a lot less harmless than before. Sal did not understand why this man was so interested in him, some random slave, but it did not bode well for him.

“Come here, boy,” his master ordered suddenly and Sal hurried across the room, dropping to his knees before the Lord. “Look at me.” Sal complied immediately, trying to keep his confusion off his face. He nearly dropped his head again immediately in dismay, as his master glared at him and turned to address the man behind the desk. “What do you want with him?”

The seated man fixed Sal with an unreadable expression and Sal found himself staring deeply into his eyes; they were almost unnaturally blue and completely captivating. He hadn’t looked another person full in the eyes for a very long time, and the experience was unsettling. It felt as if his very soul lay completely open and vulnerable. Finally, after a long moment, the man nodded at him and turned back to Lord Gryffindor. 

“I was curious as to why there was an unaccounted for member of your party under this roof,” the mild voice was back, and Sal felt a shiver roll down his spine. He did not know what to make of this man. He was old, far older than any man that Sal had ever seen, with a long, white beard and wrinkled skin. He was dressed in fine robes of a deep green, with a pattern of bright blue flowers, and his hair, under his long cap, was long and well-groomed. Sal thought that he looked very fine, certainly as fine as any Lord that he had ever seen (although there were not, admittedly, very many). His right hand, partially hidden under the folds of his robes, appeared withered and black, as if it had been hit with a very dark curse. Dumbledore, Sal concluded, no matter what he professed, was not a mere teacher.

He was shaken out of his musings by a clip round the head. He glanced to his left to see that Dunstan had stepped forward to his Lord’s side. He fixed Sal with a malicious smirk and Sal forced his face to remain in its usual neutral expression. Dumbledore cleared his throat and cast a disapproving look at Dunstan, much to Sal’s confusion, before continuing. “I was rather shocked to hear from my students that there was a stranger in the kitchens in the middle of the night,” Dumbledore’s voice turned rather reproachful as he continued to address Sal’s master. “I confess myself confused as to how he got there.”

Sal flinched as his master turned to face him, fixing him with a black look. “Well, boy, answer the man. I do not have all night and have had a wearying journey.” Sal bit his tongue around the reply that threatened to escape his lips; it was not his master, after all, who had spent his day carting around bags in the hot sun. Swallowing down the sense of injustice along with the blood, Sal took a deep breath and hoped that his voice wouldn’t shake too much to be unintelligible. He had earned his fair share of beatings that way in the past.

“I was or-ordered there, sir,” he finally got out, thankful that he only stammered the once. He looked at Dumbledore who met his gaze with an encouraging smile. Another, much firmer, cuff around the head from Dunstan sent him falling forwards, and he threw out his hands to catch himself. Taking the very unsubtle hint to hurry up, Sal rushed out his next words as quickly as he could, speaking directly into the floor. “My master t-told me to g-go to the kitchens with the other ser-v-vants,” he forced himself through the hateful syllables that trapped and twisted his tongue whenever he felt nervous. “I was unsure where to g-go, when a house elf arrived next t-to me and showed me the way.” He sighed when he finished, glad that the damned words had chosen to leave his mouth this time, and hoped that no-one would ask him anymore questions before the fucking things rebelled and left him again.

“A house elf?” His master asked in shock from somewhere above him. Sal was not surprised, the small fairies were very rare and until that evening he had not seen more than a score of them in his whole life. He doubted that his master had even seen that many, despite his many years; servants were, after all, supposed to be seen and not heard. Of course, the castle that they were currently in seemed to have dozens of elves working in the kitchens, none of whom had been best pleased to see him appear in what had apparently been the middle of dinner service. The one that had kindly rescued him and shown him where to go had told him that he should find somewhere to sit and then stay out of the way. Sal had happily complied, grateful for the rest and partly mesmerised by the sight of so many elves working in one place. They were indeed miraculous beings, capable of magic beyond the powers of even the greatest of wizards, even such as his master. Wizards were cruel, callous, and greedy beings to force such power into their service and then only use it for base, domestic tasks – tasks that could be accomplished by even the most unintelligent of non-magic servants. Sal had never understood how they could stand their captivity, how some even found joy in it; his own rankled like a festering wound.

“Indeed,” Dumbledore replied with a chuckle. “We have a great many house elves working in this castle. I hope that they treated you kindly, dear boy,” he continued, voice growing more serious. “They often become quite territorial if they see wizards attempting to do tasks that they deem to be their own.” It took Sal a moment to realise that the older wizard was addressing him; he did not think that anyone had called him “dear boy” in his whole life. Not knowing how on earth he was meant to respond to that, Sal bowed his head further, hunching forwards until his forehead rested on the stone between his hands. At least subservience was familiar and hopefully less likely to earn him a flogging than involving himself in whatever game the so-called _teacher_ was playing.

“Then are you now satisfied?” Lord Gryffindor snapped irritably, all trace of cordiality gone, as the older man dared to address his slave with such familiarity. “I wish to return to my bed.” Sal flinched.

“Lord Gryffindor, I am afraid this is unacceptable,” Dumbledore replied sternly, voice ringing with the authority of a Lord. “I cannot allow a child to sleep on the stone floor, whilst he is under my roof!”

“And why not?” His master snapped back in frustration. Sal quietly agreed into the floor. He would very much like to disappear back down to the kitchens and get some sleep. Dumbledore did not immediately reply, and his master took advantage of the silence to take his leave. “Come, Godric,” he ordered his son and began walking towards the door. “I will leave you with my manservant,” he continued coolly. “If you have any more of these ridiculous questions, I trust him to answer them on my behalf.” Sal sat up slightly and watched them go, half terrified and half hopeful that his own fate had yet to be determined. Just as his master reached the door, he turned and addressed Dunstan; Sal bent his head hurriedly back to the ground. “Dunstan, I am placing you in charge of the boy until our stay here is concluded. Dispose of him as you will.” Sal’s shoulders hung even closer to the floor in defeat, as he tried not to moan in dismay. “And you, boy,” Sal flinched as he was unexpectedly addressed, “if I find myself called upon to answer for your behaviour again whilst I am under this roof, I will have you flogged until you _bleed_. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, master,” Sal murmured, waiting until he heard the door slam shut before daring to sit back up onto his knees. He kept his head bowed, but could see the rest of the room from the corner of his eyes. With his master gone, there was no longer the need for such a complete genuflection. The faces of the other children, the students that he had mistaken for fellow servants, were painted with a mix of horror and revulsion. He was not sure quite what to make of that, perhaps they were kept away from the day-to-day comings and goings of the staff, and unused to the punishment of servants. Although, as he thought about it, he realised that they had seemed quite comfortable in the kitchen, so that made little sense. Unless, of course, the kitchens were the domain of the house elves and the rest of the servants were put to work elsewhere. Sal’s head hurt, he had no idea what was going on and he always knew what was going on, one way or another. He was far too tired for all of this and was anticipating a beating from Dunstan before he was allowed to finally go to bed, regardless of the outcome of the rest of the meeting. He sighed, and firmly kept his thoughts away from their unpleasant imaginings. He just wanted the night to be over.

* * *

 

Hermione had never felt so outraged in all her life, not even when Malfoy had first called her a mudblood, or when she discovered that it was slave labour that was making her meals and cleaning her room. But, standing in the headmaster’s office, watching someone practically her own age bowing and scraping and _flinching_ , was something so hideous that she felt her eyes welling up in sheer disgust.

“Sir,” she began to say, as soon as the _hateful_ Lord had left the room with his son in tow, but stopped at a look from Professor Dumbledore. She was trying very hard to put aside the fact that that son had been addressed as _Godric_ , because the terrified boy in front of her was far more important than her academic curiosity.

“It seems we have a lot to discuss,” Professor Dumbledore began quietly, sitting back in his chair and pinning each of them in turn with a stern look.

“A lot to…that was Godric bloody Gryffindor!” Ron exclaimed, with all of his usual tact and social grace. Hermione winced and glared at him, trying to tell him to shut up. If they weren’t careful, they were all going to get kicked out of the office before they had a chance to find out what was going on, and she knew that Harry had left his invisibility cloak in the tower, so there’d be no way to sneak back in if they were.

“Ten points from Gryffindor!” Professor Snape snapped across the room and Malfoy sneered. Hermione avoided thinking about just how many points they’d lost as a result of this evening.

“Yes, Mr Weasley. That was Godric Gryffindor and his father, Lord Gryffindor. As you can imagine, I have had a rather interesting evening; we have rather a lot to resolve before it gets any later.” Professor Dumbledore arched an eyebrow and peered at Ron over the brim of his glasses; Ron blushed as red as his hair.

Hermione bit her lip. She knew that Professor Dumbledore wanted them to stay quiet, but she needed to know. She gave in to her worst impulses and asked the question.

“But sir, how is this possible? Unless they’ve somehow _time-travelled_ this far into the future – which should be impossible?” She found herself tripping over her words and forced herself to shut up, before she said anything further. The headmaster was smiling at her warmly and Harry and Ron were shooting her identical looks of confusion. Honestly, if those boys would just learn to _read_ , then…

“Indeed, Miss Granger,” Professor Dumbledore replied, cutting off her train of thought abruptly. “There are a great many things about magic that it seems we do not yet understand.”

Hermione allowed herself a second to digest this. “But sir! How can this be possible? And isn’t it dangerous? Terrible things can happen to wizards who meddle with time!” She realised that she was wringing her hands and forced herself to stop.

The headmaster took a moment to consider, shooting an odd look at Malfoy, before sighing. “It appears that there was some kind of experimental portkey,” he explained quietly. “Beyond that we do not know much more. Lord Gryffindor and a group of his…household…I believe is the correct term, appeared in the entrance hall shortly after the start if dinner.” He stopped and looked around the room again. “It appears, as far as we can currently tell, that they have, indeed, travelled through time.”

Hermione noticed Sal’s head snap up out of the corner of her eye, his face a picture of complete shock. Malfoy, Ginny, and Ron were wearing identical looks of horror, which Hermione found vaguely amusing. It was always fun to see the arrogant pureblood acting like a regular human being, even if she didn’t get as much glee from it as Harry did. Speaking of whom, Hermione glanced around and saw him looking calmly at the headmaster; apparently her friend was not quite as surprised by this as the rest of them were. She felt her heart drop with sudden dismay; Harry had clearly found another mystery to investigate. He was terribly good at solving them, making intuitive deductive leaps that Hermione always felt incredibly envious of; but, she reminded herself firmly (before she too got caught up in the excitement of a good old-fashioned mystery), they were always ridiculously distracting and detrimental to their schoolwork. She shook herself away from the enticing idea of another adventure with the reminder that it was NEWTS next year.

“Headmaster,” Professor Snape’s voice cut across her thoughts with its usual seething dismay. “Is it really appropriate to be discussing this with…”

He didn’t get a chance to finish whatever he was going to say, as Lord Gryffindor’s servant, the man he had left in charge of the boy from the kitchens, interrupted him.

“I already know about all of this, sir. Lord Gryffindor informed us all earlier,” he stated pompously, reminding Hermione eerily of Percy Weasley. Well not everyone, she thought grimly, remembering how Sal’s head had shot up at the revelation. Perhaps only those that were deemed important enough had been informed about the fact that they’d been _transported through time_. She felt the old fury rise up in her chest that she got every time she thought of Kreacher and the other house elves treated so abysmally by wizards. Not even Professor Snape’s aghast look at being interrupted was enough to calm her down, although she noticed Harry smirking to himself. 

“Indeed, Mr Dunstan” Professor Dumbledore replied, “Although my students were not. I thought that, after their earlier surprise, they were owed an explanation.” The headmaster addressed the room, although he looked solely at Professor Snape. “Lord Gryffindor’s party will remain at Hogwarts until we can discover how they came to be here and, more importantly, how to return them to their proper time.” The headmaster looked around the room sternly, as if daring anyone to push the matter any further. Hermione was, for the first time in a while, completely speechless. This whole run of events was just so illogical, so impossible, that she honestly didn’t know what else could possibly be said. The others, apparently, seemed to feel the same way, and the room remained silent.

 Lord Gryffindor’s servant seemed to take this as a cue to move on. He crossed his arms arrogantly. “Then may I request that we return to the matter at hand, sir,” he stated with a sneer, barely maintaining his veneer of courtesy. It was clear that he would much rather have been somewhere else. “Do you have any further questions for the slave? Or can he return to the kitchens and the rest of us to our beds?”

Professor Dumbledore’s eyes darkened minutely, and Hermione shivered. It was sometimes very easy to forget that the headmaster had once duelled and won against Grindelwald, or that he had fought and nearly defeated Voldemort himself only a few months ago in the ministry of magic.

“I am afraid that I cannot allow the boy to stay in the kitchens,” he stated firmly.

“And why not? Surely you cannot think to house the boy with your own students!” Dunstan scoffed as if the suggestion were ludicrous. The headmaster sat quietly and looked him dead in the eye. “Sir, you cannot possibly!”

“All children under this roof are students,” Professor Dumbledore replied kindly, but with a shot of iron in his tone. “I see no reason that this young man cannot join them for the duration of your stay.”

The other man laughed outright at that. “Sir, if you’re suggesting that that this boy go off with your apprentices…Well, I don’t mean to be rude, sir, but you’d have more luck teaching a troll to transfigure than you would getting anything through the skull of this one.” He reached forwards to clap Sal around the back of his head. Hermione winced.

“Well we can’t just leave him in the kitchens!” Ron exclaimed suddenly, revulsion thick in his voice. Hermione couldn’t help but wish that he’d shown a little more of that concern for the lives of others when she had first set up SPEW. Harry was nodding vehemently in agreement, and Hermione felt a sudden swell of affection for her friends - her decent, honourable, bull-headed friends.

“I agree, Mr Weasley,” Professor Dumbledore replied firmly, fixing his gaze on Lord Gryffindor’s servant.

Dunstan bristled in irritation and pulled himself up in preparation of an argument. One look from the headmaster and he shrank back, glaring in irritation. “I will not have him quartered with your students, sir” he shot back, sullenly. “Lord Gryffindor has left his property in my care and I will see fit that he is put to good use. I will not have him lounging around when there’s work to be done.”

Hermione shuddered when the man called Sal ‘property’. There was honestly nothing more repulsive to her than the idea of slavery; she couldn’t imagine wanting to _own_ another human being. Besides, the matter came rather close to home for her. Ever since her grandma had told her that, although she had lived in the UK for most of her life, her family had originally come from Jamaica, Hermione had been interested in her own family history. She’d found out more than enough to feel personally insulted by the idea of people owning other people.

She forced herself to focus on the conversation and was gratified to see that the others looked as horrified as she did. Professor Dumbledore smiled icily. “Please remember that I am headmaster of this establishment and that your company are guests of our school,” he said very quietly. “I really must insist that this young man be treated as any one of my students.”  


“But he’s not!” Dunstan objected, with a quiet certainty that startled Hermione. “He’s Lord Gryffindor’s slave, and he will not be given ideas above his station.”

The headmaster paused for a moment, fixing his gaze on the bowed head of the boy from the kitchens. Hermione followed his look and studied the boy more closely; he looked exhausted and miserable. She looked up and met Ginny’s eye; the other girl looked furious and Hermione had to remind herself that not even Harry would be reckless enough to cast a Bat Bogey Hex in the headmaster’s office, so she could probably trust Ginny to behave.

Ginny, however, chose words over spells and practically shouted across the silence of the room. “You’re not even in your time! We don’t have slaves here!” Hermione bit her lip to avoid pointing out that they very much did, as she appreciated the point that Ginny was trying to make. “Why should he do what you say? Why can’t he come with us? It’s practically the twenty-first century, for Merlin’s sake! What makes him your Lord Gryffindor’s property?” Ginny seethed, and Hermione noticed the headmaster trying to hide a smile as Dunstan looked completely shocked at her outburst.

 “Life debt.” Sal stated quietly, not looking up from the floor. It was the first time he’d spoken in ages and Hermione wondered what kind of self-restraint it required to keep quiet when other people were discussing you with such disregard. Hermione glanced over at him, but his expression was carefully blank. Professor Dumbledore, however, seemed to sag at his words and sat back slowly in his chair.

“You shut up!” Dunstan replied, backhanding the boy sharply round the side of the face, sending him toppling sideways. The clap echoed loudly in the stillness of the room. “Remember your place.”

Hermione yelped with indignation as the boy pulled himself back up on his knees, the whole of his left cheek bright red. She looked at the headmaster for his incensed reaction, but instead he was sat quietly, with one hand over his eyes; he looked resigned.

“Ah,” he stated in an almost-whisper, looking up and at gazing at Sal with a deep sadness. Hermione did not think she had ever seen the headmaster look so old. “I see our problem.”

Hermione knew that, although she was very bright, she could not possibly even begin to compete with the great Albus Dumbledore in terms of intelligence, so she acknowledged that the significance of a life debt undoubtedly meant a lot more to him than it did to her. Even so, she thought to herself, she could not begin to see how anything could possibly be significant enough to allow the headmaster to just let a child be hit in the middle of his office.

“Sir,” she began indignantly, “I don’t see how…”

“I understand, Miss Granger,” the headmaster cut her off. “But I am afraid that, in this instance, Mr Dunstan is quite right. It is Lord Gryffindor’s right to determine how his…slave…will be used.” He stumbled over the word ‘slave’, almost as if it pained him to say it. Good, Hermione thought to herself, let him hurt very badly indeed, if he’s going to condone this. “But I’m still afraid that he cannot return to the kitchens,” he continued and Hermione forced herself to swallow down her fury. “It will disrupt the house elves in their work.”

 “Just put him with the rest of your staff, surely someone could use the assistance?” Dunstan stated magnanimously, appeased now that he had been granted his way. “There will not be much work for him that Lord Gryffindor’s servants cannot handle, and if he remains with our party I am sure he will grow even more lazy and indolent!” Hermione nearly threw up. She felt herself gathering her fury for a blistering rant, when Malfoy’s quiet voice sounded from the corner, starting her; she had forgotten that he was there.

“Anything the house elves don’t do is covered by Filch, the caretaker,” he stated simply, with a derisive shrug. Professor Dumbledore shot him a furious look that turned slowly considering. Hermione didn’t know what the little rat was playing at, but apparently the headmaster did. Not that that was particularly reassuring after the conversation they’d just had.

Dumbledore sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. He looked very tired. “Young Mr Malfoy is correct,” he replied, focusing on Dunstan once more. “If it is acceptable to you, he will assist Mr Filch with his duties. He can stay in the caretaker’s office. I believe that there is a spare room available there.”

Dunstan looked at Malfoy appraisingly, but his face was carefully, politically blank. “Very well,” he stated slowly. “Then he will go to this Filch.”

Harry stepped forwards, angrily, as if to protest, but stopped when the headmaster held up his hand.

“Mr Malfoy, perhaps you will be so good as to show our guests the way to Mr Filch’s office?” He looked piercingly at Malfoy, who met his gaze with an arrogant tilt of his head.

After a moment’s pause, Malfoy nodded at the headmaster and beckoned the other two out of the room. Dunstan strode towards the door, as Sal peeled himself off his knees. Hermione studied him carefully as he followed Malfoy out of the room; his  shoulders were hunched up almost to his ears and his neck was bent so low that she was convinced he’d have a crick in it by the time they’d get to Filch’s office. His expression, what little of it she could make out between the hair dangling across his face and his bowed head, was completely blank. His cheek was still bright red.

As soon as the door closed behind them, a cacophony of furious objections broke out around her. Harry and Ron were protesting so loudly that she almost missed Ginny’s hissed curses, but for once she didn’t object to another student swearing, even in the presence of teachers.  She felt like telling the headmaster where to get off herself, even if Ginny’s suggestions were anatomically impossible without magic.

“Silence” Professor Snape hissed, startling them all into abrupt compliance. “It is long since time that you were all in bed. I do not pretend to understand why the headmaster chose to indulge you all by allowing you to witness conversations that you _clearly don’t understand_. But I will not tolerate you screeching like banshees at this time of night. Out”.

Hermione looked as one with the other Gryffindors at the headmaster, hoping that he would object, but he just looked benignly at them all and nodded in agreement. Seething, she spun around and stormed out of the office, ignoring the half-impressed, half-terrified look that Ron and Harry always shared whenever she got this furious. First thing tomorrow, she was going to the library to look up life debts.

* * *

 

Severus waited for the children to leave the room before he confronted the headmaster himself. Much as he loathed to admit it, the little brats did have a point. Time-travel was a dangerous, restricted form of magic, and the headmaster seemed hell-bent on letting a group of wizards _a millennium out of time_ wander freely around his school. He waited a minute before they had all trudged from the office, muttering suitably mutinous complaints against the ‘greasy bat of the dungeons’, before stalking over to the door and swinging it open. Potter, to his complete lack of surprise, was crouched next to the keyhole making a masterful attempt at pretending to be tying the laces of his bedraggled trainers. Severus narrowed his eyes at the boy and pointed him down the staircase. He ignored Potter’s permanent petulant glare and watched as the boy stomped down the staircase. Throwing up a quick _muffliato_ in case he decided to try his luck once again, Severus stepped briskly back into the headmaster’s office, pulling the door shut behind him until it closed with a heavy thud. This was not a conversation that he particularly wished to have with Dumbledore.

“You think that I am making a mistake,” the headmaster said simply, as soon as Severus had placed himself in the empty chair by the desk. Of course he knew what he was going to say, Snape reminded himself snidely – the man was, after all, omniscient.

“I do,” he replied calmly. Although ‘mistake’ was a large understatement, ‘cataclysmically ridiculous decision that may lead to the eradication of the wizarding world as we know it’ was far more appropriate. “Headmaster,” he began, reaching for whatever patience he had left at the end of a long and tortuous day. “Surely we cannot allow these time-travellers free access to our school.”

“I think you’ll find, my boy,” the headmaster replied, with an odd smile on his face, “that it is in fact, _their_ school.”

Severus was in no mood for word games with the headmaster. There was far too much at stake for them to distract themselves with the curious improbabilities of temporal displacement. Sod who owned what when Godric Gryffindor had appeared in the entrance hall with his malicious prick of a father, dragged through time by the mad magical experiments of Lady Ravenclaw and her companion Helga Hufflepuff.  They clearly hadn’t known where they were and had no recollections of being in, let alone founding, a school, or of knowing a Salazar Slytherin for that fact. Hogwarts wasn’t theirs yet and that was the end of the matter, as far as Snape was concerned.

“Headmaster, this is serious!” Severus found himself hissing. He took a deep breath and attempted to control himself. It was most unlike him to let his frustration and stress get away from him so easily. If such a thing were to happen before the Dark Lord, the consequences would be distinctly unpleasant.

Dumbledore shifted forwards in his seat, steepled his fingers and stared down at one of the spinning trinkets on his desk. Severus noticed that he seemed to have far fewer of them this year.

“Do not think, Severus,” the headmaster began, “that I am taking today’s developments lightly.” His words were light, spoken with a careful delicacy that raised the hairs on the back of Severus’s neck. He was entering into dangerous ground, but he had to make the headmaster see sense. The older man had been making increasingly disturbing decisions of late and disappearing from the school at odd hours. He wasn’t sure if it was the effects of the curse at play, but Severus was becoming concerned that the headmaster was losing focus on anything that wasn’t related to the war. He quietly worried that the only thing that would now motivate the headmaster was the destruction of the Dark Lord. That boded well for the war, but ill for the school.

“Then why allow any of this?” Severus bit out. “Surely someone of your talents must know something of the theory of time travel? You must do something to get them back to their own time!” Even as he said it, he knew that he had pushed too far. The headmaster’s head snapped up, colour rising in his cheeks. He pinned Severus with a fierce stare.

“What would you have me do?” Dumbledore thundered. It was very rare that the headmaster raised his voice at all and Severus froze at the unexpected change of tone. Perhaps the headmaster was more disturbed by this than he had believed. “We are at war, Severus! You do not need me to remind you of that fact.” Severus frowned in irritation; no he most certainly did not. Dumbledore eyes shone brightly enough to scald, as he continued. “I have a responsibility to the students of this school and to the rest of our society. Voldemort must be stopped.”

Severus sat back as the headmaster leant stood up from his chair and began to pace the span of his office, continuing his impassioned speech. Severus did not think that he had ever seen the headmaster this affected.

“I am an old man, my boy,” Dumbledore stated, lowering his voice with an attempt at restraint that was clearly causing him great difficulty, “and I am dying. I am on borrowed time and I must make the most of all that I have left to impart to young Harry all that he needs to know to win this war.” The headmaster had calmed as he spoke, his voice dropping with a weighty sorrow as he spoke about Potter’s inevitable conflict with the Dark Lord. Severus felt the familiar sneer rise up at the thought of James Potter’s son. As always, the Chosen One would be at the top of the headmaster’s priorities. The rest of them all be damned as long as Dumbledore’s sacrificial lamb was properly prepared to die as demanded.

He frowned to himself, unsure as to where Dumbledore was going with his lecture. It was all well and good bringing up the war, but it had precious little to do with the unexpected guests in the castle and why the headmaster had not made any attempts to send them back where they belonged.

As if reading his thoughts (which Severus knew was impossible, as he had exemplary Occlumency shields) the headmaster smiled at him. “Nor am I omnipotent, Severus, despite what the Daily Prophet is currently peddling,” Dumbledore half chuckled. Severus met the headmaster wry smile with an even expression. “Even I must be allowed to have difficulty understanding magic that perplexes even the great Rowena Ravenclaw.”

 “So we are to do nothing, then?” Severus found himself saying, voice dryer than the bones he used in his potions. “We are to allow these time-travellers free reign in a _school_. I apologise headmaster, but I do not share your confidence that _children_ will be capable of understanding the intricacies of causality.” He winced as if he had just eaten something very sour. “Miss Granger has a point.” That had hurt him to say. “‘Terrible things happen to wizards who meddle with time’ and these are the _founders_ of this school, one of the premier institutes of magical education in the world – they have influenced society more than Merlin himself! One false step and we could destroy the wizarding world as we know it. If they so choose, Hogwarts herself may cease to exist.” Severus felt himself paling at the sheer enormity of the danger they were in. “There is precious little purpose using all of your time educating the _Chosen One_ , if we unintentionally rewrite the whole of known history through sheer negligence!” Severus had not realised that he had started shouting, or that he had stalked the length of the office, until he was a foot away from the headmaster and staring directly into his damned twinkling eyes.

“I agree, Severus,” Dumbledore replied, “but I do not believe that such a catastrophe will occur. I do not profess to understand the intricacies of time travel. Some mysteries, I believe, should remain unsolved. But I do believe that we are bound within certain parameters and that that which we seek to change is often brought to pass despite our will, or even our better judgement. In short, my boy, I believe that our visitors were always meant to find us and that any consequences of their presence here have already been played out through time.” His tone was much too reasonable and expression far too understanding for Snape to be able to hold onto his anger, or his panic. He felt it washing away from him, to be replaced by sheer resignation. He watched as the headmaster returned to the chair behind his desk. Fawkes trilled compassionately from his perch, before flying over to rest on the headmaster’s shoulder. Severus couldn’t help but feel the calming wash of Phoenix song settle in his bones and began to think that he has, perhaps, been overreacting; he lowered himself into the chair opposite the headmaster and took a deep, calming breath.

“Headmaster,” he began, unable to take his eyes from the gentle, methodical way that Dumbledore was stroking the bird’s feathers.

Dumbledore looked up at him, piercing him with those startling blue eyes. Suddenly, Severus couldn’t think of a single thing to say. The man in front of him looked old, far older than Severus had ever thought possible. His skin was sallow and paper thin from the curse that wracked his body, but it was his eyes that made him ancient. There was a terrible weight that rested behind that perpetual, irritating twinkle. Even though Severus had often wished for a greater level of sincerity from the headmaster, he found the absence of his typical joviality incredibly jarring. He felt his throat tighten in dread.

“I understand, my boy,” the headmaster sighed. He shuffled some paperwork on his desk and cast Severus a look from the corner of his eye. “It is human nature to react protectively when one’s home is under threat. Hogwarts was the first place that you truly considered home, was it not?”

Severus did not miss a beat.

“You misunderstand my motivations.” The lack of an honorific was the only indication Severus allowed to convey how irritated he was at the headmaster’s attempts to empathise. Dumbledore hummed in curiosity and he continued. “The school itself is obviously of great concern.” He chose to ignore the headmaster’s small smile at his carefully constructed understatement. “But there are a great many other consequences to consider if you are wrong. Not the least of which, as I have already noted, is the eradication of wizarding society itself.”

“Not the least of which?” Dumbledore replied with amusement. “Next to such a calamity, my boy, what further catastrophes, as a result of my inaction, do you possibly perceive as a worthy source of your distress?”

Severus took a sharp breath. As always, this was the difficulty when speaking with the headmaster: the greater good must always come first.

“I thought that enabling the continued enslavement and abuse of a child might be a rather _worthy_ reason, headmaster,” Severus hissed, shining a _lumos_ on the elephant in the room; on the boy that the headmaster had allowed to be beaten about in his office and sent to the gentle hands of a sadistic squib. A dark delight purred in his chest as Dumbledore physically flinched, all amusement dropping from his face as he fell into an expression of intense pain.

“Ah,” Dumbledore began, “As always, Severus, you play the better man and force me to see that which I have overlooked. You and young Mr Potter both.” Severus frowned, he was most definitely not the better man; he was not even a good man. He was bitter, cruel, and uncompromising, yes, but he was also, thankfully, nothing like James Potter’s arrogant spawn. Dumbledore could at least refrain from insulting him. “I am afraid that there is little that we can do for our young friend,” the headmaster continued, “their society is not our own. We cannot arrogantly claim moral superiority and restructure their lives on a whim.”

“I do not think that rescuing a child from slavery is a mere whim, headmaster,” Severus answered tightly. “If we do no nothing then we are permitting abuse to continue.” He refused to meet the headmaster’s eye, knowing that he could not continue this discussion if he had to meet that knowing look. “It was odious enough that we allowed a child to cower on his knees in front of us.”

“The child is held under a life debt, my boy,” Dumbledore stated seriously. “I trust you now understand why I once went to such great lengths to impart the significance of such a bond to James Potter. To save the life of a friend requires no payment, it is an act of love, which is a magic far too often overlooked. To save the life of an enemy, however, is an act of sacrifice and so requires payment. It may be morally repugnant to us to force another into servitude to appease such a debt, but the magic itself is not so discerning.”

Severus looked up in shock. His throat tightened and his ears drummed with pounding blood. He looked down to see that his knuckles we clasped pure white around the arms of the chair. Forcing himself to take deep breaths, he willed his fists to unclench. He had been so close, then? So close to- to _that_? Forced servitude at the hands of Potter? All because he’d stopped him from seeking out a werewolf on a full moon? He had never felt so sick in his life. He would have suffered more under Potter, with Black eagerly watching on, than he ever had serving the Dark Lord. There were few things in life that Severus was certain of, but that was one of them.

“I believe that you understand,” Dumbledore said gravely. “I do not mean to cause you distress, Severus, but you must trust me when I tell you that I cannot free that boy from his bond, nor can I control how Lord Gryffindor commands his service, even as headmaster of this school. You saw how he was treated, to interfere much more would only make things worse for the boy.” Dumbledore paused and sighed deeply. “Magic allows us the freedom to do many marvellous things,” he mused wearily, “but we are still subject to its laws and absolutes.”

Severus sighed and let his head fall into his hands. He remembered, suddenly, walking home from the pictures with Lily one late summer evening, back when they were both young enough to pretend that things like blood status and social position didn’t matter. There was a dead pigeon lying in the street, in the gutter by the hairdressers. Just a dead pigeon, vermin even. It was something they’d seen a hundred times before and by far the least disturbing thing that either of them would end up seeing, before Lily Evans was ripped prematurely from his world; but Lily couldn’t get it out of her head. They were halfway down the street before she had burst into tears and ran back, feet pounding on cobbles that threatened to turn her ankle at any moment. Severus had followed in alarm, bent double and gasping for breath when he caught up with her.

When he had realised why she was so upset, he had nearly burst out laughing. He had always been far crueller than she was. They had stood there in silence, as the postman cycled past for the last collection of the day, and the streetlights began to flicker on. They had been staring at the corpse for what was definitely an inappropriate length of time before Lily finally sighed, nodded, and walked away. As they left it behind and ambled home in the burnt orange glow of the setting sun, she had asked him how come, if magic was so incredible, it couldn’t stop horrible things from happening. She had looked so serious, tear-filled eyes looking so startlingly, beautifully green that he had almost lost his breath. Some things, he had replied shakily as he tried to remember how to speak, are beyond even the control of magic. She had shaken her head, stating that nothing could be beyond magic if you cared enough to fight for it.  She had refused to accept his explanation as they trudged home, wrinkling her nose and setting her face into that stubborn expression she had that could bring a priest to swear. She’d denied any attempt to convince her otherwise even as he hugged her goodnight on her doorstep, illuminated by porchlight, with her harpy of a sister glaring at them from the upstairs bedroom window. When he finally got home, his father had beaten him for his lateness. He hadn’t even cared.

 “No,” he said suddenly, forcing himself back to the present. “I refuse to believe that some things are so far beyond our control. There must be a way out of such debts, surely the magic cannot allow them to continue indefinitely? The payment must somehow be judged complete.” He met Dumbledore’s eyes coldly, daring the older man to challenge him. He never felt so adamant than with the fire of Lily’s conviction raging through his veins. 

The headmaster sighed and nodded his understanding to Severus.

“I wonder,” Dumbledore murmured quietly, as he stared down at the ruins of his arm, “what is the price of a life?” They sat in silence as Fawkes began to gently sing gently. The ticking of the clock on the cluttered desk sounding a gentle beat to the bird’s melody. Finally, the headmaster shook himself and smiled in gratitude to Fawkes, before turning his attention back to Severus.

“Indeed, my boy, you are right,” he smiled ruefully. “You must permit an old man his mistakes; I find myself making more of them recently than I ever did in my youth. Or perhaps I am just better able to recognise them for what they are.” He looked Severus dead in the eye as he continued. “There was once a boy, an orphan, brought up in a muggle orphanage. I gave him his Hogwarts letter and introduced him to the magical world. I sensed something in him, a darkness, a cruelty even, from the very first moment that I met him.” Severus felt a shiver ripple through him, as the story continued. “He passed through these halls like a prince, bringing all those around him under his thrall, and yet I did nothing. He committed atrocities within this school that lay hidden for decades, and yet I never noticed. I do not pretend to be any more than a man, Severus, even if I am, if I say so myself, a lot cleverer than most. But, as I look back, I believe that I should have done more to stop him. Perhaps it is sheer hubris to suggest that any one man could have prevented the rise of Lord Voldemort, but I cannot help but hold myself responsible. Had I known what he would become, I would have done everything within my power to stop him.” Dumbledore paused then and took a deep breath. “You know who this boy will become, Severus.”

Snape nodded tightly, how could he not? It was a startling revelation, but hardly a strenuous leap of deduction from the pitiful slave Sal to the absent Salazar Slytherin.

“You are not the only one, I am sure. If young Mr Potter and his friends have not solved the mystery yet, they will soon. As, I’m sure, will a silent majority of our students. It is exceedingly difficult to keep a secret at Hogwarts, despite one’s best attempts.” Dumbledore grimaced, and Severus recalled how certain ‘secrets’ had, over time, become common knowledge around the castle; he was fully convinced that Dumbledore’s ‘best efforts’ varied much upon both his whim and his desire to fuel Potter’s suicidal thirst for reckless self-endangerment. Severus waited patiently for the headmaster to continue.

“Perhaps you may help him, or perhaps this will be one task too great for even a great many men to accomplish. We are working against fate, after all, and she is known to be a fickle mistress.” Dumbledore smiled, but there was a great deal of pain behind his eyes. “If I am right with my theory that the presence of our guests will not disrupt the timeline, some things will already be set in stone. The child you seek to help now will still become the Salazar Slytherin whose teachings have poisoned our society. If I am right, which I believe I am, then whatever you do, for good or ill, will not change anything for us in our present- or…” he paused and looked at Severus with more compassion than he had thought it possible for one man to possess, “or, indeed our past, my boy.”

Severus nodded, simply.

“I understand,” he said quietly, standing and pushing his chair neatly into the desk. He nodded politely at Dumbledore. “Goodnight, Headmaster.”

He walked from the room, followed by the murmured response. He was confident, after thinking it through, that the headmaster was right and that none of their actions would have any detrimental effect on the timeline. This appeased his immediate concerns about letting the _Founders of Hogwarts_ loose in a castle of ignorant brats, but did little to appease his conscience. He might not be able to change the past and stop the rise of blood supremacy that led to lifeless green eyes and heart wrenching sorrow. He might not even be able to do anything about the life debt, but he was certainly going to look into it; he was damn well going to try. He very much refused to allow a child to walk around Hogwarts as a slave and not a student. Until he found a way to break that boy out his bond, he was going to do his best to keep him safe from the worst of his so-called master and try to find a way to impart some education on him before he left the school. He’d been doing nearly the same thing for Potter for years; it would hardly be anything new or strenuous. He smiled bitterly to himself and began the long walk to his chambers.  Severus cared enough to fight for this child; he’d find a way to make the magic work. With that thought, he smiled genuinely for the first time in a very long time. He walked back through the darkened corridors, basking in the burning power of Lily Evans’s conviction.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sal gets to know Hogwarts. Harry has another mystery to solve.   
> TWs for references to abuse and slavery.

The next few days had been surprisingly normal for Harry and his friends, considering that the founders of Hogwarts had crash-landed in their time and taken up residence for the foreseeable future. It seemed that the almost supernatural ability to adapt to any and all weird circumstances that all Hogwarts students cultivated over the course of their education was still going strong. Harry had spent the whole of Saturday building up to the Quidditch match, trying to jostle Ron into playing well. His trick with the _Felix Felicis_ had worked like a charm, and he'd won his first match as Gryffindor captain – against Slytherin, no less! If it weren't for the fact that Ron and Hermione had fallen out cataclysmically in the aftermath, he might have even been able to enjoy the win and the celebratory party. Instead, he stood in the corner, being handed cup after cup of a vile tasting liquid that he realised to his dismay, three rounds in and with the edges of the world starting to blur, was cheap nettle wine.

Between his feuding friends and the headache from hell, he'd spent most of Sunday hiding behind the curtains of his four-poster bed and squinting blearily at his Charms homework. Neville had poked his head round some time in the early afternoon to bring him a leftover sandwich from lunch; Harry had eaten it gratefully, and then spent the next half an hour trying not to throw up. All in all, it was one of the least productive days he had ever led in his life and he swore to himself that he would never, ever drink again. He hadn't even been able to go sleuthing for news about the time-travellers, and it was killing him not to know anything. He thought that Ron and Hermione might have made some headway, but he found Ron curled up in a dark corner of the Common Room with Lavender Brown; Harry beat a hasty retreat before he was further traumatised. Hermione, on the other hand, had disappeared to the library at the crack of dawn and he didn't have the energy or the stomach to track her down and face a lecture about the dangers of alcohol, even when he finally started feeling vaguely human again around dinnertime. She didn't reappear until breakfast on Monday morning, and Harry half-suspected that she'd slept there overnight, though he had no idea how she'd managed to avoid the ever-vigilant Madam Pince. In hindsight, he realised she'd probably spent most of Saturday there too, whilst he was caught up in last minute preparations for the match. The last time she had spent that much time in the library, she had been revising for OWLS. He'd surmised that she was researching something to do with the boy, Sal, but she'd only stayed in the Great Hall long enough to grab a slice of toast, once she'd caught sight of Ron and Lavender's entwined hands. Harry couldn't blame her, as the sight put him off his food a little too, but he really would have liked the chance to compare notes on the time-traveller situation.

It wasn't until Potions that he managed to catch up to her, by which time he'd massively fucked up and was in need of a bit of help. He'd passed Sal a couple of times in the corridors that day; he had been determinedly pushing a straggly looking grey mop up and down the stone floors, dragging a bucket of water behind him and looking completely miserable. The second time that Harry stumbled upon him working, he had tried to talk to him. The boy had been so startled that he knocked the bucket over and soaked a good section of the third floor corridor. He'd dropped to his knees immediately, apologising profusely and soaking his threadbare trousers. As the puddle expanded, he'd jumped up and tried to mop up the worst of the spill. Harry had pulled out his wand to help when Filch appeared. The miserable bastard of a caretaker then immediately started yelling at Sal, clipping him around the back of the head and threatening to do much worse if he made any more mess. It was only Sal's pleading look that finally made him leave for Potions. Harry was late in the end, but Professor Slughorn let him get away with it; the professor had only winked conspiratorially at him and told him that a young Gwenog Jones had also once pushed the boundaries of school rules.

Harry's hands shook slightly as he furiously measured out armadillo bile, relating the scene that he'd just witnessed to Hermione. He knew there was very little that he could have done without making it worse for Sal. Whenever Dudley had deliberately messed up Harry's work to get him in trouble – traipsing mud through the hall just as Harry had finished vacuuming, spilling drinks over the freshly cleaned worktop, and other such petty irritations – it was usually better to try and get the mess sorted out before his uncle saw and then hope for the best; no good ever came from other people interfering. One time his aunt had been screeching at him for leaving the hosepipe running and nearly drowning the roses. Next-door-but-one had been walking the dog and stopped to tell her that he'd seen Dudley messing around with the tap and that, just this once, it might not be the local delinquent's fault. His uncle, when he'd come home from work, had been furious and accused Harry of being a nasty little liar. The ensuing argument was nasty, even by Uncle Vernon's standards; Harry didn't leave his cupboard for a week afterwards. He wasn't going to get Sal into more trouble by having a blazing row with Filch, particularly when the git of a man had seen quite comfortable hitting him in front of half the third floor corridor.

Hermione didn't follow his logic and had refused to speak to him for the rest of the lesson, which Harry thought was a bit off. He loved Hermione dearly, but, he bitterly reminded himself as she glared at him out of the corner of her eye, she always thought she was right, even about things Harry had a hell of a lot more experience with. She took her anger out on her potions ingredients, obliterating coriander seeds between her pestle and mortar and chopping doxy wings into minute particles. The whole time, she'd been glaring as Harry followed the additional instructions in the Half-Blood Prince's potions book and his potion steadily turned the correct shade of pale pink. Her own potion was nearly identical, which Harry thought was bloody miraculous, considering she'd reduced most of her ingredients to pulp before they touched her cauldron. He wisely kept this thought to himself and tried to swallow down his own anger.

"Perfect work as usual, Mr Potter," Slughorn had commented as he'd walked past their desk. "And you, Miss Granger. Exemplary, both of you." Harry ducked his head and kept his book and its helpful notes hidden under his parchment of lesson notes, deliberately ignoring Hermione's reproachful glare.

As soon as the lesson finished, she stormed out of the classroom. Ron shot him a commiserating look and rolled his eyes in exasperation. Harry scowled and reminded himself very firmly that Ron was his best friend and that he was not getting embroiled in another row between the two of them. He turned away from Ron with a bland half-shrug, packed his bag with more force than was really required, and sulked his way through the rest of the day's classes.

The rest of the week plodded steadily onwards and soon Friday was upon them. He'd seen precious little of either of his best friends outside of classes, and was starting to suspect that their fight would last all the way through to Christmas. Harry hadn't seen Sal again all week, either. He'd tried hanging around outside Filch's office to try and run into the other boy, but had been foiled at every attempt by the sudden appearance of Snape, who'd accused him of loitering and made him leave. After this had happened three times in one day, he suspected that Snape was deliberately keeping him out of the way, either that or the ex-potions master was heavily invested in protecting Filch's stash of confiscated dungbombs. Having not seen Sal since the altercation over the mop bucket, Harry was beginning to get concerned that something had happened to him; he had mentioned as much to Professor McGonagall the day before. She had told him unequivocally that things were under control and advised him to put his thoughts to his studies for once, especially as he was now in his NEWT years. She'd left him with nothing more than a stern look and a promise that the teachers were monitoring the situation with the visitors. Harry had been hoping for a biscuit.

He had also made absolutely no headway into figuring out what was going on with the time-travellers. They were the topic of conversation everywhere he went, but no one seemed to have any reliable information. The general consensus was that the founders had come to help fight Voldemort, but he'd heard any number of eyewitness accounts – from Gryffindor battling a manticore in the trophy room, to Hufflepuff coming through time to fire Snape for being a terrible teacher – so he couldn't trust the rumour mill any more than usual. His nocturnal wanderings had yielded precious few results; he still didn't know whereabouts in the castle the group were staying. The only thing he'd been able to confirm was that it was all three of Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Gryffindor who had fallen through time, and that they hadn't even thought about building Hogwarts yet in their own era. He only knew that much because he'd heard the Fat Friar bragging to one of the Headless Hunt that the Bloody Baron had recognised the younger founders. Even the ghosts didn't know any more than that. The other members of the party, Lord Gryffindor and his servants, had apparently locked themselves away in whatever part of the school Dumbledore had put them up in, as Harry hadn't seen hide nor hair of them all week; the only evidence that they were still in the school was the word of a second year Hufflepuff, who couldn't even say how many servants were with Lord Gryffindor, or much more beyond the fact that they were near the astronomy tower and had looked like they were in a hurry. Harry had staked the tower out for the next couple of nights after that rumour broke, but they didn't return (if they'd even been there in the first place). He'd also had no luck on the Sal front. After his chat with McGonagall, Harry had begun to think that the other boy was going out of his way to avoid him. Harry's second-best option, the Hogwarts rumour mill, had apparently decided Sal was an undercover Auror who was helping Filch to look for contraband, so most of the students were giving Sal a wide berth; this was not helpful to Harry's investigation.

It was therefore with a heavy heart that he sat down to breakfast on Friday morning. He helped himself to some toast and idly looked round at the half empty table around him. He was up early, and half the school would still be in bed for another hour. He smiled and awkwardly thanked the few Gryffindors that came over to congratulate him on last week's match and searched for a good excuse to divert attention away from himself. He noticed immediately that the usually inseparable Creevey brothers were sat at opposite ends of the table, and very deliberately not looking at one another. Some sort of feud had developed between Colin and Dennis. Harry asked a group of third years what was going on. After they got over the shock of being spoken to by Harry Potter, and Harry had stopped blushing in humiliation, he got his answer. Or rather, answers. One girl had heard that it was definitely over a girl, another that it was over a game of gobstones, and a third that it was part of the ongoing Rotfang conspiracy. That last one had sounded so earnestly like Luna that he just knew that she was a Quibbler subscriber. After coughing up the goblet of pumpkin juice that he'd just inhaled, Harry decided that, whatever had happened between the Creeveys, it was probably best left alone and not really any of his business.

"Dennis is pissed off with Colin over the other night," Ginny whispered in his ear, sliding onto the bench next to him. Harry dropped his goblet in alarm and soaked his bacon and eggs with sweet juice as Ginny laughed outright at him.

"Fucking hell, Ginny," Harry exclaimed, trying to still his beating heart and failing as his brain finally processed just how close to him she was sat. "Warn a bloke next time, wouldn't you?"

"Constant vigilance," she reminded him tartly, and reached over the table to pour herself a cup of tea. Harry looked mournfully at his breakfast, before pushing it away from him and grabbing a nearby bowl of porridge.

"Hilarious, Ginny, really. But what has Colin done now? Anything I need to watch out for?"

Ginny shot him a weird look, taking a gulp of tea. Harry watched her swallow, idly noticing how beautiful the line of her neck was. He stopped himself abruptly. He had to stop thinking about her like that; he was beginning to get a bit weird.

"No, Harry," she told him slowly, looking at him as if he were being particularly dense. "Not all problems at Hogwarts are yours to solve, you know? It's just Dennis being a brat because Colin dragged him up to bed before he got to find out all the juicy gossip about our mysterious time travellers."

"Ah," Harry replied sagely. He supposed that these were the sorts of things that siblings argued about. He did get angry with Ron and Hermione (well, more Hermione in practise) when they dragged him away from things that interested him. He had long since accepted that Dudley would prevent him from enjoying anything fun; his name was Dursley, after all, but he'd never really thought of him as a sibling, an equal. "But there's not really that much to miss," he protested quickly, forcing himself back to the conversation. "Nobody really told us anything properly. Besides, the whole of Hogwarts knew what was going on by the end of breakfast the day after. It's not like anything stays secret around here!" Harry ran his hands through his hair in exasperation, messing it up even more than usual.

"It's the principle of the thing." Ginny brushed aside his objections with a wave of her hand. Harry deferred to her superior knowledge; she was the youngest of seven and certainly knew more about sibling rivalry than he ever could. If the way that she smirked at him as she sipped at her tea had anything to do with his sudden refusal (or inability) to speak, then he would not be admitting to it, even under Snape's strongest Veritaserum. He quickly shovelled porridge into his mouth to buy him some time to recover his thoughts.

He was still chewing when Hermione burst through the doors of the Great Hall and practically ran the length of the Gryffindor table to where he was sat.

"There you are, Harry," she said with an air of admonishment, "I've been looking everywhere for you."

"Are we talking again then?" he asked her sullenly and Ginny elbowed him in the side.

"What, Harry? Of course not." Hermione was clearly distracted. "I've been in the library all week, researching life debts, and I've just found the most incredible book! I think it might have a way to help Sal!"

Harry smiled widely, joining Hermione in her enthusiasm; he had spent most of last year arguing with his friends, he was happy to find an excuse to let bygones be bygones on this occasion. He pushed his plate away and stood up. Sensing Ginny's curiosity, he beckoned for her to join them, and they made their way up to the library to go and see what Hermione had discovered.

* * *

 

Had Sal known the frustrations of the week that lay ahead of him, he would have run and hid somewhere very dark the minute that the students had found him in the kitchen.

He'd left the office after the meeting with the headmaster, trailing behind Dunstan and the boy with hair so blond, he had to be a Saxon. The boy looked to be very rich; his robes were a deep black that must have cost a fortune to dye, and were much neater and well-maintained than those of the other students. Sal wondered why someone so fine would condescend to be sent away to be apprenticed, rather than tutored at home, and filed away the question to investigate later. As they walked further away from the meeting room, Sal sensed that Dunstan was getting frustrated and was impatient to shake off their chaperone so that he could kick Sal around a bit before bed. A moment later and he confirmed Sal's suspicions.

"I'm sure you're tired," the bastard stated suddenly. The blond boy turned his head to acknowledge the remark, but kept on walking. "If you point us the rest of the way, I am sure I can see this wretch where he needs to be." The boy pondered this for a moment, slowly stopping in the middle of the corridor. He let the pause drag on and Sal felt his shoulders slump in resignation. He should have known this was coming; he had no right to be so surprised.

"Thank you for your consideration," the boy finally replied and Sal had to bite back a groan, "but I can't leave you stranded in the middle of the corridor, especially when you're disorientated with the shock of travelling so far into the future." Sal's head shot up in surprise and he was startled to find the other boy appraising him with a piercing look. Their eyes met. "Who knows what might happen to you if I let you wander off alone." The boy's tone was level, as he turned to address Dunstan, "it would be terribly remiss of me to allow you to get lost at this time of night. The school is rather large." The moment was broken and the boy had gone back to ignoring Sal with an air of polite disinterest, but Sal knew that the boy had known what Dunstan was trying to do, and so had interfered on Sal's behalf. No one had done that in a very long time.

They walked the rest of the way to the office of Mr Filch with Dunstan silently fuming behind him. Sal ignored him, and the half-formed curses that he was muttering under his breath. His mind was racing. If this boy had stepped in to save him from a beating, what could he possibly want in return? Sal was a slave; there was precious little that he could do for anyone else without the approval of his master. It would have been far easier – and ultimately more productive – for the other boy to have outright asked Dunstan to borrow him, than to try and play games of manipulation. Sal wouldn't have been allowed to say no.

As they finally stopped in front of a door, Dunstan knocked against it heavily. Muffled curses from inside sent a thrill of foreboding through Sal and he winced. The other boy shot him a look that seemed both superior and reassuring. The door swung open as Sal had a sudden moment of clarity; the other boy had interceded on his behalf upstairs too, suggesting a course of action that stopped the headmaster and Dunstan arguing over his head for half the night. That would not have ended well for Sal once news got back to his master.

Sal stumbled into the office as Dunstan and the other boy lingered outside, Dunstan explaining to Filch that he was leaving Sal at his disposal. The man was dressed in a long cotton nightgown and seemed immensely displeased to have been woken up. He grunted at Dunstan, grumbled at the other boy, cursed the headmaster, and then shut the door in Dunstan's face. He grabbed Sal's arm and pulled him through a door in the wall, into a very drab, but immaculately clean, hallway. He pointed Sal to a side door and stomped off back to bed.

The room that Sal had been granted was small but well furnished, with a thick rug on the stone floor, a couple of small tables, and an exceedingly comfortable looking bed on the far wall that was heaped in soft-looking, woollen blankets. He knew that he wasn't meant to touch it, and the rug would have been far more comfortable than his usual sleeping arrangements, but Sal was buoyed by the victory of an escaped beating and was feeling a little rebellious. He threw himself on the bed and wrapped himself in the blankets. He moaned softly in comfort and curled up in a ball of warmth; his eyes drifting shut within moments.

The next morning, he woke up startled as Filch pounded on the door and ordered him up. Sal rushed to comply, smoothing the sheets out as best as he could and hoping that the caretaker didn't notice that the bed had been used. He tiptoed out of the room and followed the sounds of Filch's coughing and shuffling, to a small room at the end of the corridor. He stood and waited silently for the other man to notice him.

Filch sat at a table, humming to himself and spreading thick, yellow butter on a slab of white bread. Sal's eyes widened, not even Lord Gryffindor ate bread that pale. The quality of the flour must have been very fine indeed. Sal wondered how rich these people must be, if even the servants ate like kings. Filch looked up a moment later and jumped a foot in the air, dropping his knife onto the table with a loud clatter, as he saw Sal standing silently in the corner,.

"Merlin's beard!" Filch exclaimed loudly, "don't sneak up on me like that boy!" He glared, but Sal sensed that he was quietly pleased that he had come to the kitchen so quickly. He picked up his bread and went back to his food. Sal watched him with envy, it was a while since he'd last eaten and his stomach was complaining loudly.

"Well, sit down!" Filch said suddenly, and Sal looked up in confusion. He realised with a jolt that the other man had been looking at him for a few minutes, whilst Sal had been distracted by the bread disappearing from his plate. He pointed at the chair opposite him, and Sal hurried to comply, plonking himself in the seat with a sense of unease. He was even more confused when Filch grabbed a slice of toast from the rack in the middle of the table, swiped the butter knife over it, and slapped it on the plate in front of Sal. "Toast," Sal was informed abruptly, as Filch finished his plate and grabbed another slice for himself.

Sal sat watching the plate in front of him, exercising a great deal of his will to not pounce on the food. He waited, staring masochistically at the meal in front of him, until Filch finished his food and poured himself a steaming cup of something from a pot.

"You're not going to be picky with me, lad," he told Sal sternly, taking a sip from his mug. He closed his eyes momentarily with a sigh of contentedness, before glaring at Sal and pointing at the uneaten bread on his plate. "That's all you're going to get, so you'll eat it or you'll go hungry."

Sal had stuffed the bread in his mouth and was furiously chewing before his brain had even properly registered that he'd been given permission to eat. Filch looked at him wryly and he forced himself to slow down and savour the salty taste of the butter. He kept half an ear open as Filch began regaling him with the list of the day's chores, but his focus was on his unexpected breakfast. He gathered enough to know that he was going to be cleaning. A lot. Not that that really bothered him, he was used to chopping wood or helping to tend the fields; pushing a broom around was hardly beyond his physical capabilities.

As if sensing his disdain, Filch slapped his hand down on the table and made Sal jump to attention. "Now listen here, lad. The headmaster has put me in charge of you, and you're going to do as you're told. That fellow last night said you were a lazy little bugger, but I promise you, that won't fly with me." Sal watched his hands warily as he continued to rant. "Try and cross me, and I'll have you hanging from your thumbs in the dungeons before you can say "mistake". Understand?"

Sal nodded quickly and stayed very quiet for the rest of the morning, obediently following every command without hesitation. He bent his back over the brush as he scrubbed at muddy footprints in the entrance hall, and kept his eyes down as he wiped coloured paint from a suit of armour. He had no doubt that Filch would keep to his word, and had no wish to antagonise him; his threats were certainly more creative than the usual promise of a beating.

Filch fed him both lunch and dinner, which was unexpected, so Sal assumed that he must have done a decent job. When he was finally excused, he wasn't brave enough to sleep on the bed again, but he did pull a blanket over himself as he curled up on the rug.

The next day, he woke up early to the smell of porridge; Filch served them both breakfast and started listing the day's tasks almost immediately. Sal had frozen at the thought of working on a Sunday. He had to take a few calming breaths before he could muster the courage to broach the issue with Filch. Although he had never been particularly devout, and wasn't that concerned about risking his immortal soul on a missed mass, Sal wasn't willing to earn himself a flogging for working on the Sabbath. The law was the law, and it wasn't exactly forgiving on slaves. Filch had looked confused and told him to stop being lazy, telling him that Sunday was just another day as far as he was concerned, and promising him a flogging if he _didn't_ work. Caught between a rock and a hard place, Sal surrendered and hoped to the God he was offending that no one reported them to his master for working on a day of rest. Over the course of the day, Filch set him to various tasks and he complied in silence, trying his best to avoid the attention of the castle's other residents. The other man seemed to find his obedience disconcerting, and clipped him round the ear every now and again, warning him not to be getting any ideas, and promising that he'd regret it if he tried to get up to any mischief. Sal hadn't had either the time or the inclination for 'mischief' in years, so he bowed his head and wearily weathered the blows.

By the time that Monday came around, he had gathered enough of Filch's good faith to be left to his own devices. He was left with a bucket full of soapy water, a mop, and a stern command to clean the main corridors down by midday. After a weekend of following the caretaker round the castle, Sal thought he had a rough idea of where he needed to go, but he hadn't anticipated the massive influx of students in the corridors. There seemed to be hundreds of them, all dressed in identical black robes, carting round heavy bags and rushing from classroom to classroom. Sal swallowed down his envy as he watched them pull out wands for careless displays of everyday magic, summoning dropped quills and casting warming charms in the cool morning air. He focused on the mop in his hands, ignoring their curious looks, and moved out of their way as they pushed and shoved their way around the school.

He had worked his way up to the third floor when everything went wrong. He had just returned to his bucket, and was staring at the now murky water and wondering if and how he was meant to replace it, when someone yelled at him from down the corridor.

"Hey, Sal!"

He jumped half a foot and knocked the bucket flying. A quick glance told him that it was the messy-haired boy that had escorted him up to the headmaster's office the other night. He cursed him quietly in his head and dropped to his knees.

"Sorry, sir," he bit out quickly, and waited for the boy to react. He'd spent a good portion of the other night cowering before his master, in front of this boy and his friends; he had no idea how the boy remembered his name, but it did not bode well for him. He apologised a couple more times before he realised that the water was spreading further and further down the corridor. He weighed his options and decided it was better to risk pissing off the other boy than to let the mess get any worse. He jumped up and grabbed the mop that he'd let fall beside him, and tried to soak up the worst of the spill, but he was fighting a losing battle. To make matters worse, Filch chose that moment to check up on his work, and came across the upended bucket and the soaked corridor.

There was a moment's silence before Filch started shouting at him. He stormed over and clapped Sal sharply round the back of his head.

"I knew I shouldn't have left you alone!" he thundered. "The minute I turned my back! You're asking for a good whipping." Sal shrank back, shooting a glance at the other boy. He looked furious and began to pull out his wand. Sal blanched and looked at him beseechingly; he knew how much damage could be done by one of those things. Filch seemed to agree. "Potter!" he hissed, turning on the other boy, "I should have known you were involved in this!" He rounded on the other boy and shooed him away. "Get to your lesson, now!" The other boy lowered his wand, but didn't move. "Move, Potter, or I'll have you in detention!" The boy shot one final, unreadable look at Sal and stormed off. Sal let out a sigh of relief, before squaring his shoulders and bracing himself for Filch's rant.

The next couple of days had not been pleasant. Filch was back to watching him like a hawk, and Sal spent half his time watching the older man for signs of violence. Some time on Monday night, Dunstan dropped by Filch's office to ensure Sal was behaving. The timing of his visit was far too inconvenient, for Sal, to be anything other than premeditated. He'd listened gleefully as Filch complained about his behaviour, accusing him of deliberately causing disruption and being disobedient. Dunstan had blackened both his eyes without a second thought, and taken the time to advise Filch on the best way to keep unruly slaves in line. He'd left Sal on the floor, clutching his ribs, with a gleeful Filch looking on from the corner. Sal strongly suspected that Filch had been holding back on physical violence without the say-so from Sal's masters; it was, after all, generally considered rude to purposefully damage someone else's property, disobedience aside. But now Dunstan had given him an open invitation, and Sal had no desire to see what Filch might come up with on his own. The threat of the dungeons was bad enough as it was.

On top of which, he was also dedicating a downright inconvenient amount of his energy to avoiding the students of the castle. If he wasn't politely deflecting the inquisitive questions of the smaller students, he was furiously ignoring the taunts of the older ones who had decided that servants were a new and hilarious source of comedy. He forced his anger back time and time and again; if he dared lose his temper, he'd be hanged. He was not risking his neck on a few rude names. Besides, he'd been called far worse in his time.

He also seemed to have picked up a collection of very dedicated stalkers, all of whom showed a disproportionate level of interest in him. The first and most determined was Potter; he was like a dog with a bone. Every time he went near Filch's office, there was the other boy, lying in wait outside the door. Sal found a convenient tapestry to duck behind until the other boy lost interest and went away; he very much did not want to be on the other end of Potter's wand, especially if the other boy was actively seeking him out to claim retribution for the spilt bucket. Fortunately, this is where his second stalker became exceedingly helpful. The man who had ordered them up to the office the other night had taken to following Sal around, intercepting Potter's ambush attempts and sending him on his way. Sal learnt that his name was Professor Snape, that he was some form of tutor for the hundreds of students at the school, and that he loathed Potter with a burning passion. Sal wasn't quite sure if Snape was actively helping him out, or just using him to find reasons to berate and punish Potter. Either way, he did not think that the professor meant him any harm. It was his final stalker that gave him the most concern on that front.

The blond haired boy, Draco Malfoy, had introduced himself coolly some time on Wednesday when Filch had rushed off to deal with a rampaging poltergeist. Sal had taken advantage of the moment of peace and had slumped down behind the statue of a leering wizard for a rest. Sal saw him coming down the corridor and tried to stand up, but the other boy waved him down and leant casually against the statue, blocking Sal from view.

"I know who you are," Malfoy had informed him calmly after stating his own name. Sal had no idea what he meant by that. He was Lord Gryffindor's slave (which the other boy had already been told), beyond that he was nothing. He said as much.

"You most certainly are not!" Malfoy fumed in indignation, "I don't know what game you're playing, though I'm sure it has to be very good." He looked at Sal with a strange gleam in his eye. "I just don't _understand_. Why are you pretending to be a slave? And for that filthy Gryffindor, of all people?"

Sal flinched and looked around desperately; thankfully they were alone. If Lord Gryffindor had heard him say that, the consequences would not have been pleasant. "Please, s-sir," he whispered fiercely. "D-don't s-say such th-things about my m-master. He isn't a m- man you w-would wish to an-anger."

Malfoy raised an eyebrow at him. "You're really dedicated to this performance, aren't you?" Sal looked at him in blank incomprehension. "Look, it's okay. You can trust me. I can help you with whatever you're doing. I'm a Slytherin."

Sal had no idea what the other boy was talking about and the fevered gleam in his eyes was getting increasingly disturbing. Sal had learnt enough to know that students were organised into four coloured groups, named Gryffindor, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw and Slytherin. The first three were very old, noble wizarding families, but he had no idea of the last one. He thought it might have been a foreign family who rose to prominence at some point in the future. He did not know what was particularly significant about the student groupings, so he just nodded slowly. He still didn't properly comprehend the fact that they had travelled through time, despite how the strange clothes and manners screamed their strangeness at him at every turn. He tried not to let it bother him too much, as he thought that he might go mad if he thought about it too closely. Besides, it didn't really matter where they were or what time they were in; a slave was still a slave.

"You aren't really a slave, are you?" Malfoy suddenly asked him, looking at him with a disbelieving sneer.

"Yes, sir," Sal said helplessly, not really sure what he was supposed to say. The other boy stared at him incredulously for a moment longer, before abruptly deflating and looking lost.

"But this isn't how you're meant to be!" the boy argued petulantly, looking much younger than before. "You're one of the greatest wizards of all time. You aren't meant to be a _slave_. Something isn't right!" Sal watched helplessly as the boy ranted to himself. Sal very much suspected that the boy had him confused with someone else; there wasn't a hope in hell's chance that he was, or ever would be, a great wizard. He wanted to be, heaven only knows how much he wanted to be powerful, to be free to use magic as he wished and to truly find out what it was capable of achieving. But unless he somehow worked out how to steal or make a wand without being caught and summarily executed for his efforts, he was stuck performing the few weak charms he could channel through his hands. That did not a legend make.

"I'm sorry, sir," he replied quietly, hoping that Malfoy would realise his mistake and leave him alone. He even wished that Filch would come back and catch them so that he could hurry the other boy along, even if it meant Sal would catch a beating for lounging around.

"You're what? No. No. I will not have this." Malfoy looked as if he were about to throw a tantrum in the middle of the corridor and Sal flinched away from him. "You…oh for Merlin's sake!" He threw his hands up in the air and sighed in exasperation as Sal flinched again. "I'm not letting this go," he warned Sal angrily, and stormed away up the corridor.

From that moment, Malfoy had taken to sidling up to him in the brief moments that Filch left him alone. Sal had no idea how he was doing it, and could only assume that he was missing copious amounts of his lesson time, but Sal found it incredibly annoying. The few moments of peace that he had earnt were suddenly occupied by awkward silences as Malfoy stared at him as if he were a riddle to be solved. He always sidled away seconds before Filch reappeared; he continually cut it so fine that Sal almost suspected that the boy had some kind of Seer-like precognition.

Consequently, by the time that Sal had finished his first week in the future, he was exhausted and completely bemused. He'd been subjected to far more attention than he had ever been used to and it was a very unsettling feeling. He had no idea what was going on, or why so many people were interested in him, and he didn't like it one bit.

He pondered grumpily over the week's events on Friday evening, as he methodically packed his cleaning supplies into a broom cupboard, under the watchful eye of Filch. The sun had already begun to set, and the whole corridor was painted in a soft amber glow. It wasn't yet dinnertime, but the year was inching closer to the Solstice, and the nights were prowling on the edges of the day like a cautious thief, steadily stealing the light and replacing it with more cold hours of dark skies and bright stars. He wondered idly if he'd spend Yule in this strange place, suffering through the deep bite of the midwinter freeze in an enormous, draughty, unfamiliar castle. He dearly hoped not, as he knew that he couldn't survive another few months of the unrelenting scrutiny he'd endured all week.

Now that the shock of the magic vortex had worn off, and Sal had begun to acclimatise to his new time, he was beginning to see things with a little more of his usual clarity. He knew that he would explode from frustration and get himself killed if he didn't do something about his stalkers. Malfoy would be easy. For some reason he refused to believe that Sal wasn't the person Malfoy thought he was, despite any and all statements to the contrary. If he chose to be so ridiculously bone-headed, then Sal felt almost honour-bound to take advantage of the situation. He decided to drop a few subtle hints that he was hiding something, and see if Malfoy took the bait and tripped the snare. If it worked, he could recruit Malfoy to help keep Snape and Potter's attention elsewhere, and thus kill two birds with one stone. He was, of course, making the assumption that Malfoy would be enamoured enough with the idea of his idol to take instructions from a slave, and therefore neither report Sal's behaviour to his master nor take the opportunity to further accost Sal on a more frequent basis. But Sal was quite good at reading people, and he thought that he had judged Malfoy correctly. It was Potter that he thought he'd misread, earlier in the week. What he'd taken for aggression in the hallway, after some distance and a bit of thought, had begun to look more like righteous indignation, and on Sal's behalf at that. Sal suspected that the other boy's motives in seeking him out were perhaps more benign than he'd originally assumed.

Sighing guiltily, Sal stacked his bucket in the corner of the cupboard and closed the door quietly. He turned round to see Filch tapping his foot impatiently and glaring at him. Sal sighed again, internally this time, keeping his face neutral. Filch. He was the biggest threat to Sal's continued sanity, watching him like a disapproving, violently inclined mother hen every second of the day. On numerous occasions all week, Sal had been forced to bite his cheek to prevent the insolent words he had stored at the tip of his tongue from flying out and getting him into trouble. He had always been an impertinent brat, ever since he was a child tripping through the streets of the burh, snarling insults and curses at anyone who sniggered as he passed, and called him a bastard or his mother a whore. He'd had to learn to be thick-skinned when the truth hurt more than anything that the other children made up. But he was fighting a losing battle with his temper, and he knew that one more night with Filch would send him over the edge; the man sermonised more than a priest!

Thankfully, providence intervened before Sal let his more bloodthirsty thoughts play out. Just as Filch had begun another tirade about how lazy and ungrateful children were, he was interrupted by a shout from one of the Professors.

"Mr Filch! There you are!" Sal did not recognise the stern woman who was rushing towards them, but Filch evidently did and he shut up immediately.

"Professor McGonagall," he replied quickly, "what's happened?"

"We've had another swamp-related incident, I'm afraid. Right in front of the Slytherin common room!"

Filch grumbled under his breath. "Fetch a mop, lad," he ordered Sal. "Though I don't think I'll do much good against it if it's one of those Weasley creations." He informed the professor wearily.

"Oh, that won't be necessary," the professor said, as Sal rooted around in the dark cupboard. "Filius has already dealt with it." Filch let out a small sigh of relief, as the professor continued. "Unfortunately not before half of Slytherin house started duelling in the corridors. I have about seven different disputes to settle and we still haven't caught the perpetrators. I was hoping that you could help us manage them all." As she spoke, Sal retrieved the mop and emerged back into the corridor. Filch looked positively gleeful at the idea of so many students in trouble, and he turned to Sal with a thoughtful look.

"I'm going to trust you on your own," Filch informed him pompously, "Go straight back to my office and wait there. I'll be helping the professor here for a bit. I will probably be gone for a few hours." Sal kept his expression carefully blank and nodded his understanding, even as his heart rejoiced at the unanticipated blessing of a Filch-free evening. The professor looked at him shrewdly, but decided to let her suspicions lie. As she led Filch away up the corridor, the caretaker turned around for one last comment. "And put that mop back where you got it from!"

Sal hastened to comply, a rare smile on his face. He closed the cupboard door with a gentle swing, wondering what to do with his suddenly free time. His good mood didn't last very long.

"Merlin, I didn't think that was going to work," came the disembodied voice of Potter from just off to his left. "Good thinking with the swamp, Ginny." He suddenly appeared in thin air next to the two other girls from the other night, with a swish of material. "At least we can always trust the Slytherins to cause trouble." Potter laughed with the other two and turned to Sal, grinning.

"You can make yourselves invisible." It was the only thought running through Sal's brain and he voiced it without thinking. He winced at his rudeness, but no one chastised him for it. Potter huffed out a laugh and looked a little sheepish.

"Sorry, mate. It's just my cloak that does that." Potter stuffed some material into his open bag and rubbed his hand across the back of his neck. Sal watched him with wide eyes; whatever magic it was that made such an impossible garment, it must have cost a lot of money. Sal wanted one very desperately. One day, he promised himself fiercely.

The group shuffled closer to him and Sal crossed his arms and leant against the wall, eyes politely low. For whatever reason, they'd broken their teachers' rules in order to seek him out. He knew that he had the upper hand, but they were still freemen and women and etiquette had to be observed. He was pretty convinced that none of them were nobility, Potter was the surname of a craftsman and ladies of quality would hardly be allowed to wander around unchaperoned with a tradesman's son. Even so, regardless of where their families stood in the social hierarchy of the other students, they were still very much above Sal.

"I've been trying to talk to you all week," Potter told him quietly.

"I'd noticed." The words were out before Sal realised that he'd spoken. His eyes widened with horror and he braced himself, expecting a blow, damning his tongue for insubordination and Filch for wearing his patience so thin. There was a dreadful moment of silence before Potter started to laugh.

"And I thought I was being subtle. You've probably been running away from me all week. Look, sorry if I've offended you or something, but we just want a quick word and then I promise we'll leave you alone." Potter grinned at him and Sal was struck how genuine his smile was, not twisted in cruelty or tight with pity. He decided to hear him out.

"No, s-sir," he began and cursed the return of his stuttering words; he could never tell whether his speech would come out fluent and coherent, or whether it would have to be dragged haltingly, like a reluctant mule, from his tongue. He gritted his teeth to get through the next part of his speech. "I ap-apologise if I off-fended you. I wasn't av-voiding anyone, I promise." It was a damnable lie, but politic given the circumstances. Potter was courteous enough to let it go with only an arch look.

"Great! Listen, we don't have long or we'll end up getting you into trouble. But first things first, it's Harry, definitely not sir, and this is Hermione and Ginny," Potter pointed to the girls next to him in turn and they both smiled warmly at Sal. "The thing is…" Potter seemed to lose his train of thought and looked helplessly at Hermione for help. "I don't know how to begin."

"The thing is, Sal – may I call you that?" she waited for Sal's cautious nod before she continued. "We're all rather unhappy with how the teachers have been handling a few things this week; the main one of which is you." Sal thought it was incredibly presumptuous of the students to question their instructors so openly, but didn't dare voice his thoughts. "It's a question of morality," Hermione continued, looking more and more incensed as she spoke, "I don't care what Professor McGonagall says about causality and mitigating the impact on the timeline; slavery is wrong and burying our heads in the sand makes us complicit." Sal had no idea what she was on about, but Potter (sorry _Harry_ ) and Ginny were looking at him very earnestly. Their enthusiasm made him feel very old indeed. "I've been researching life debts in the library and I wasn't able to find much information until this morning," Hermione smiled widely in triumph, "I found a book on magical legal contracts that mentions a way to enforce limits on the magic in bonds, without causing any harm to either of the parties. It doesn't specifically mention life debts, or how to get out of them, but I think it might be a good place to start." She started routing through her bag as soon she finished speaking. Sal took a moment to process what she'd just said.

"You want to help me get out of my life debt," he replied simply, running his hands through his hair. He wasn't quite sure if he believed what he was hearing.

"Yeah, mate, of course," Harry said with quiet determination, as if he wasn't saying something completely preposterous.

Sal took another moment to process the strange turn of events. "That's ridiculous," his tone was incredulous, "and it's impossible." He felt his temper flare, convinced they were mocking him. It was a particularly vicious kind of torture to promise him the impossible, knowing that he could never have it. He was almost impressed; in a long life of gross abuses and petty cruelties, they had managed to find a new and interesting way to hurt him. He found his words coming to him more easily, as he always did when he was angry or upset, rather than afraid; they flowed through him fluent and unchecked as he spat at his tormentors. "Spare me your fucking practical jokes; they're unamusing and a waste of my time."

Potter raised his eyebrows in surprise and Sal silently seethed. He vaguely felt something pounding for his attention at the back of his mind but he was too incensed to pay it any attention. Hermione shuffled awkwardly and looked pleadingly at Potter, who was watching Sal closely. Sal stared him down and slowly forced his fists to unclench, swatting away the voice at the back of his mind like it as an irritating fly. He crossed his arms defensively and slouched back against the wall again. There was a long moment of silence and then Ginny let out a low whistle. Sal finally calmed down enough to register what his brain had been trying to remind him of, and his heart skipped a beat – he had just snapped and sworn at Potter, in front of ladies, no less. Blood rushed from his face and he dropped to his knees immediately, cursing his temper and unending stupidity. He was in so much trouble.

He knew that no apology would do him any good, and so waited quietly, head bowed, for Potter to send for his master.

"Mate," Potter's voice was tight and pained and it startled Sal into glancing up. Potter looked ill, Hermione was on the verge of tears and Ginny looked furious. Sal closed his eyes in dismay. "Mate, Sal, look at me." Sal really didn't want to, but an order was an order and he knew his place. Potter's expression had softened but he still looked vaguely nauseous. "We're not joking here. We want to help you. Fuck, c'mon, please get up." Sal reluctantly dragged himself to his feet, fully convinced that he was getting up just to be knocked down again, but an order was an order.

"Sal please," Hermione tried, her voice quivering slightly, "we're not going to hurt you. We want to help." She stepped forward and reached for his shoulder, but Sal flinched at her touch, his chest beginning to tighten. "You have to believe us!" Sal felt light-headed and a little hysterical. Of course he had to believe them, there was nothing ludicrous about the conversation at all!

"Why should he?" Ginny spoke with quiet fury. "Look at his face, Hermione. Why should he believe any of us when he looks like he's flown ten hours against a beater with a score to settle?" She stepped forward and met Sal's eyes, a careful two feet of distance between them. "Who did that to you?" she asked quietly.

Sal froze completely at the redundant question. He really didn't see why it mattered. He didn't know what they wanted from him. No one had ever shown this much interest in him before and he _hated_ that he didn't understand why anyone would suddenly care about him.

"Take your time," Potter told him quietly, but Sal found that he couldn't speak. His breathing quickened into shallow gasps and his heart clenched painfully in his chest. His blood pounded furiously in his ears, and he realised vaguely that he'd slumped back against the wall.

He faintly registered Ginny moving closer to him. She started talking to him quietly about one of her lessons and her failed attempts at casting some charm. Sal had no idea what she was talking about, but her calm voice gave him something to focus on as his breathing calmed and the panic slowly lost its hold on his thoughts.

"Thank you," he said quietly when she came to a natural pause; he had managed to get his breathing back to normal, though his heart was still beating violently.

"No problem," she told him blithely, "I'm pretty familiar with panic attacks myself. My brother, Ron, is usually pretty good at talking me through them." She'd crouched down in front of him at some point without him realising and he watched as she pushed herself to her feet.

"You alright?" Harry asked him cautiously and Sal nodded slowly. "If this is too much for you, we'll leave you be for now, but we're on your side, mate. Seriously." Sal didn't exactly trust that, but he'd just been completely in front of them all and none of them had tried to hurt him, they'd actually tried to help him.

"I'm alright," he replied honestly and pulled himself to his feet, shooting them all a wary smile.

"Thank Merlin," Hermione breathed in relief, looking red faced and flustered. "I'm not making any promises, Sal, but we'll try our best to help you get away from your…master. Slavery is against the law in our time. It has been for over a century and a half. We're on your side."

"But… how?" Sal asked her quietly. He didn't think it wise to push his luck and ask why, even if it was the more burning question.

"I don't know for certain yet, but I will soon," Hermione responded with confidence. "In the meantime, take a look at this. Something might jump out at you that one of us has missed." She reached into her bag and pulled out a book made up of hundreds of leaves of thin parchment, bound together in dark brown leather. It was beautiful. He took it reverently from her hands, half-convinced someone was going to snatch it away at any moment. He'd never touched a book before; they were priceless treasures.

He flicked fascinatedly through the pages and peered at the cover, delighting in the crisp inked letters and the musty smell of the parchment. He couldn't believe how much trust they were placing in him to let him hold such an object. He forcedly pulled himself out of his stupor and took a more analytical assessment; nothing seemed off with the book magically, as far as he could tell.

"Sorry," he told Hermione quietly and tried to hand it back to her. "I don't think it'll w-work. N-nothing felt any d-different to me."

"Just give it a chance" she told him gently, "you haven't even read it yet." Harry and Ginny nodded encouragingly at him and Sal stared back down at the book in blank incomprehension.

"I can't read this," he told them apologetically and tried to pass it back to Hermione again. He was starting to feel nervous holding it for so long, convinced that he was going to damage it somehow.

"Please, Sal," Hermione responded quietly, "it might help you. Just give it a try."

"No," he told her blankly, "I mean I can't _read_ this." It took a disproportionate amount of time for her to grasp what he was saying. Really, it shouldn't have been that surprising. It was rare for even nobles to be literate, unless they trained in the church. Lord Gryffindor was a rare exception; he encouraged his family to read, promoted education amongst the other lords and encouraged scholars like Lady Ravenclaw to come to his hall to study from his prized selection of books of magical theory. But Sal? He was a slave and a commoner and a bastard on top of those. Who would ever have bothered to teach him to read and write? There wouldn't have been any point.

"That might be a problem," Harry said quietly, blushing as he took the book out of Sal's hands. Hermione looked like someone had spat in her wine cup. "We'll figure something out, we're not giving up on this." Sal kept his face carefully blank of all scepticism, reminding himself that they'd forget about him soon enough, even if he had started to trust that they meant well. Harry looked at a device on his wrist and swore at whatever it showed. "Look, it's late. We've missed dinner and I don't know how much longer Filch is going to be distracted. Leave it with us. Hermione is brilliant at research. If anyone can find a way to help you, it's her!" They all looked at him sombrely, and Sal felt his chest tighten very briefly.

He shot a tentative smile at the trio, bobbed a quick bow, and rushed off down the corridor, forcefully suppressing the sliver of hope that was building in his chest with well-practised cynicism. It did not do to dwell on what could be and not what was. As he rounded the corner, he realised that it was much later than he'd realised. He hadn't noticed how dark it had become until Harry had mentioned dinner, but the sun had long since set and he was navigating the dim corridors by memory alone. He hurried back to Filch's office with a rising sense of dread and heaved a sigh of relief when he entered to find it empty. He carelessly pushed open the door that led through to the chambers with a faint smile, intending to hide in his room and ponder the strange conversation he'd just had, but froze at the sight that awaited him. Filch was stood outside the kitchen door, glaring at Sal and grinding his teeth loudly; Dunstan leered unkindly at his shoulder. Sal swallowed hard, blood rushing from his face, any lingering trace of joy abandoning him abruptly.

"Well then, where have you been?" Filch asked him with a malicious smile. He stalked forwards, giving Sal a clear view of the thin leather strip coiled in Dunstan's hands. Sal dropped to his knees and started pleading.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for this chapter folks. Poor Sal, I would promise that things will get better for him, eventually, but they get worse again pretty soon after. Anglo-Saxon society was not very accommodating towards slaves, even by the end of the tenth century/ beginning of the eleventh when new laws started coming through.
> 
> If anyone is as nerdy as I am, here are a few notes on Anglo-Saxon society, as it's influencing Sal's worldview.
> 
> Sal's fear about working on Sunday is very legitimate. It was illegal for anyone to work on the Sabbath and was punishable by a whipping for a slave or a fine for a freeman.
> 
> The burh that Sal refers to is a walled fortified settlement. At the end of the 9th century, Alfred the Great built many of these as part of a defensive strategy against Viking invasion. I won't go into more detail about which burh Sal is talking about, as this plays a part in his backstory and he isn't ready to share that just yet.
> 
> Lastly, although Hogwarts is built around the 990s, castles, even motte-and-bailey structures don't really arrive in Britain until after the Norman invasion. As such, my headcanon is that wizards were using magic to build stone castles from a much earlier date than muggles, this is why Sal is not surprised to find himself in a massive stone building, rather than a wooden hall.
> 
> As to why everyone can understand each other when the time-travellers would be speaking Old-English (and a regional dialect of Old-English, in particular), that will be explored by Hermione in a future chapter. It isn't majorly plot significant, but Hermione is interested, and I've got a headcanon that demands to be written.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi All, thank you so much for reading and reviewing! To everyone who's stuck with me so far: thank you. To anyone new: welcome!
> 
> Specific TWs this chapter for the aftermath of a whipping/ physical abuse, and for the discussion of abuse. Also TW for injury and blood. This chapter also explores the psychological impact of trauma and abuse quite a bit, so please be aware of that before reading.
> 
> Please let me know what you think!

Sal woke up slowly and painfully. Awareness crept from the back of his mind like a limping dog, drawing him tortuously – step by step – back into the world of the living. He felt sluggish and empty. The light, when he managed to pry his eyes open, was far too bright. He closed them tightly against the burning, as his stomach churned and black spots danced across the backs of his eyelids. He was lying on his front; his left arm was pinned uncomfortably against his body and his right was thrown up to his face to shield his eyes. It was too bright; it had to be late. His throat was very dry, and his tongue felt too big to sit behind his teeth. He wetted his lips; there was a strong metallic taste to his mouth. He shifted slightly and noticed that he was lying on something soft. With a dim sense of horror, he realised that he was sprawled on a pile of blankets, on top of the bed in his small room. His back throbbed fiercely, and he choked back a sob. Sal slowly remembered what had happened: he'd been flogged.

He moved carefully, shifting his arm out from under him. He forced himself to focus on the tingling pain in his hand, as blood rushed back to his fingertips. That was good. That was manageable. That wasn't the bite of leather crashing down again and again and… Sal tore his thoughts away from the memories of the night before, trying to bring back the dull detachment that he'd awoken with, but it was no good. His eyes burned fiercely, and his chest ached almost as much as his back.

His mind kept replaying the same awful moments over and over; he desperately tried to remind himself that it was over, that he was safe. He sniffed once, sharply, and then again, trying to convince his treacherous mind to believe itself; but, despite his best efforts, his heart still pounded fiercely. Sal opened his eyes again, wincing as they steadily adjusted to the brightness of the room. Nothing looked out of place; he was, thankfully, alone. The curtains had not been drawn the night before, and the sun shone brightly through the window on the far wall, in pure defiance of the pale frost that coated the glass pane like moss on stone. It was going to be a cold, but beautiful, day. Sal burrowed his face deep into the blankets and started to cry.

 

He didn't know how long he was left alone for, but he was grateful for the reprieve. He let himself sob until the pressure in his chest subsided and his breaths were coming in deep, shuddering gasps. He had never been a silent crier, no matter how many people had tried to beat it into him, and he was glad that Filch hadn't heard and come to accost him. He was usually granted a couple of days to recover after a particularly bad whipping, but he didn't know if he'd be that lucky this time around. Fate had not shown Her favour to Sal in years.

He'd passed out in Filch's office the night before, hanging from the chains on the wall that Dunstan had dragged him to and strung him up in. He had no idea how long the whipping had lasted before he'd fainted, or how long it continued once he was unconscious. He felt faintly sick, wondering who had taken him down and put him on the bed – or why. He was not normally permitted to use the furniture.

Sal was lying shirtless, and the air was cool against his inflamed skin. Dunstan had forced the rough material over his head the night before, with a promise that Sal would feel the full bite of the whip. He'd kept his word; Sal had only lasted two blows before he'd started to scream. Sal tried not to think about that memory too much – or what it meant that, despite the pain and humiliation, he was still pathetically grateful not to have ruined his shirt.

He stayed in the same place for most of the day, anxious that Filch would storm in at any minute and berate him for his laziness, but in far too much pain to motivate himself to move without any immediate cause. By the time nightfall came and the room fell dark around him, Sal was hungry enough to push himself out of bed and wincingly make his way out of his room. Before heading to Filch's kitchen, he stopped off in the bathroom, deliberately keeping his gaze away from the door that led to the office. He did not want to think about that room.

The bathroom itself was an oddity that Filch had introduced him to on their first day together. There was a heavy, stone tub for bathing the full body, which Sal was instructed to do daily (much to his bemusement) and another, smaller basin for washing the hands and face. There was also a seat made from a strange stone, the use of which Filch had been forced to explain, blushing fiercely at Sal's confused questions.

The whole room utilised some incredible magic that made water appear and disappear at the turn of a metal tap. Sal had even discovered that a couple of the taps gave out hot water, on demand and in large amounts. That was, quite frankly, one of the most miraculous things he'd ever seen. He knew that he probably wasn't meant to use the hot water, but Filch hadn't expressly forbidden it, so Sal took advantage of it every chance he got.

Sal hurried into the bathroom as quickly as his sore body allowed, the hollow ache in his stomach reminding him of the need for haste, and filled the basin with lukewarm water. He took a deep breath and turned to examine his back in the long mirror on the wall. The mirror let out a shriek and started blabbering at him about hospitals and healers, calling him "dear" a remarkable number of times. Sal wasn't really sure what all the fuss was about; the skin had only been broken in a few places and although there was blood, it wasn't much. He would scar again, of course, but not too badly. He was covered in welts and thin, black bruises from neck to waist, but those would fade. All in all, it could have been a lot worse.

He shot the mirror a confused look and grabbed a small cloth to wipe away the dried blood. One wound was oozing slowly, and he forced himself to push down against it with the damp cloth until the bleeding stopped. He would need to dress the cuts with a poultice, before they became diseased, but he didn't think he'd need to have them stitched –thankfully. He hatched stitches. He dunked the cloth back in the sink and rinsed it until he washed away the last traces of blood. He then drained the water from the basin and looked carefully around the room to make sure that he'd left everything exactly as he'd found it.

His shirt was waiting for him when he left the room, hanging on the handle of the door and looking cleaner than he'd left it. Not wanting to run the risk of staining it, should his back start bleeding again, he clutched the shirt tightly in one hand and limped into the kitchen. Filch was sat at the table, staring at his hands. He looked up as Sal entered; his skin was a sickly pallor in the flickering light cast by the torches on the wall. He took in Sal's form in one long look, before averting his eyes back to his hands.

"What do you want?" Filch asked gruffly. Sal jumped and nearly dropped his shirt.

"S-sorry sir, I just…Sir I need b-bandages and some herbs for…for my ba-ack, sir," Sal answered hesitantly, as Filch still refused to look at him. Sal was used to people casting their eyes away from him – he was hardly anything worth looking at, after all –but it was unusual coming from the older man, who usually watched him like a hawk.

"I'm sure it's not as bad as all that, lad," Filch told him decisively, looking up for the first time. He didn't look angry, or scornful, and something in his expression looked very peculiar to Sal. It was almost as if Filch were uncomfortable, although Sal had no idea why that would be the case. It was not Filch, after all, who was limping around half-dressed the day after a flogging. "You earnt that fair and square, lad," Filch continued, looking at Sal sternly, "so don't go whinging about it, because you won't get any sympathy from me."

"Yes, sir," Sal answered obediently, casting his eyes to the floor. Certain that he wasn't going to get any pity (let alone any dinner) from the irritable older man, Sal turned to go back to his room. As he moved, allowing Filch a clear view of his back for the first time, he heard a sharp intake of breath behind him.

"Stop," Filch told him abruptly; Sal froze, flinching. There was a long moment whilst Sal stood stock still, shivering under the weight of the older man's gaze. "What…" Filch's voice was hesitant and strained and he spoke haltingly. There was a brief moment of silence, before he recovered himself. "Put that shirt on, now!" he ordered Sal in a tight voice and waited as Sal rushed to comply, before continuing. "Go to your room. There's a plate waiting for you there. But don't you dare make a mess, or there'll be hell to pay."

Sal limped back to his room and found, much to his delight, a slice of chicken pie and some green vegetables waiting for him on the side table. It was slightly cold, but very good, and it disappeared very quickly, without a crumb left to mar the bedspread. Sal guessed that Filch must have left the food whilst Sal had been tending to his wounds in the bathroom, but he couldn't for the life of him guess why. He sat down very carefully on the bed and puzzled over the strange behaviour of the irritable caretaker, until he fell into a pained sleep.

Filch's strange behaviour continued over the next couple of days. Where he had previously been scrutinising Sal's every move, he suddenly couldn't look at Sal for longer than a few seconds, without his gaze darting awkwardly away. He spoke very little to Sal, instead directing orders and then vanishing for increasingly longer periods of time. It was that quirk that had been the strangest development for Sal. Filch had started leaving him to do his work alone, where only days before he had refused to trust Sal to hold so much as a dust cloth without supervision.

The amount of work Sal had been given was also much lighter, which made sense in light of his injury; only a fool would damage valuable property by forcing it to overwork, not before it was fully repaired. But Filch had also taken to insisting that Sal find his way back to his rooms alone, as soon as his tasks were completed, without checking with Filch that the work was up to standard.

If he didn't know any better, Sal would have thought that the older man was suddenly uncomfortable around him, but the thought of that was ridiculous. Sal hadn't done anything particularly egregious that he hadn't been duly punished for with that flogging. As for the punishment itself, it was nothing out of the ordinary. Filch had done as etiquette demanded by calling for Dunstan to deal with his master's errant slave, and Sal knew that the caretaker was well within his rights to demand the punishment that he had for Sal's disobedience. Unless Filch was avoiding Sal out of embarrassment for how Sal had taken it. But that was also a strange thought, the best of men cowered or pleaded when faced with a whipping, and Sal was only a slave; he should have been below disdain for things like that. It was hardly as if Sal was the first person that Filch would have seen flogged either; there were chains hanging from his office walls for that precise purpose! Sal couldn't think of any legitimate reason that Filch would be treating him so oddly. But still, after two whole days of the strange new dynamic (which included another stressful worked Sabbath for Sal) Sal had been forced to admit that Filch was avoiding him.

That was, in itself, a remarkable relief, as it granted Sal a level of freedom that he had not experienced for a number of years. For the first time in quite a while, he was free to work at his own pace and to rest as he wished, without the fear of heavy blows to chasten him from his indolence. It also allowed him to move more slowly, with greater care for his injuries. His back throbbed fiercely whenever he moved, and his ribs had come up in some brilliant bruising that told him Dunstan had, yet again, been quite literal in exploring the phrase "kick a man whilst he's down". But with a couple of days of light work, Sal was starting to feel a lot better. By some blessed miracle his wounds had scabbed over nicely, without the aid of a poultice, and Sal had half-convinced himself that he'd misjudged their severity in the first place. Therefore, with a bit more freedom and his injuries on the mend, Sal was loath to look a gift horse in the mouth; he chalked Filch's strange behaviour up to an act of Providence and left it at that.

Unfortunately, the other students seemed to have noticed that Filch was suddenly leaving his charge alone, which was not especially helpful for Sal. The older children, who had taunted Sal before, now doubled their efforts and applied themselves to the task of bullying with, as Sal judged, admirable devotion. He had been pelted with flying ink pellets, tripped as he walked down the corridor, and subjected to a great number of (surprisingly accurate) taunts about his birth, manners, dress, and behaviour. Sal had even heard his first new insult, "squib", which he had no clue as to the meaning of, but thought it to be a nice change from the usual litany of curses that he heard from Dunstan. To get himself through the day, Sal had started making up elaborate plans for devastating revenges that he would never get to enact. He knew that half the thoughts (and curses) that he had in his head were probably enough to tarnish what, if anything, was left of his soul's innocence, but Sal thought eternal damnation couldn't be as tortuous as withstanding the petty barbs of ignorant children, without something to distract himself. So he gritted his teeth and delighted in picturing the painful deaths of the – mainly green-robed – students.

Sal had also seen an increased effort by both Harry and Draco to try and talk to him. Sal avoided them as much as he could and kept his head down, unwilling to incite Filch's wrath again, especially when his back was still bruised from his last indiscretion. Draco had not seemed to take the hint, but was not particularly affected by Sal's indifference; if anything, it had made him more determined to solve the "mystery" (as he put it) of Sal. Sal had responded by dropping increasingly ludicrous 'hints' that he was brewing some kind of master plan. Draco had fallen on them like a hound on a fox. Sal was content that, by the end of the week, he'd have Draco following his every command like a doting puppy. He might then get some peace and quiet from the insufferable nuisance. No, Draco was quite easy for Sal to manage. It was Harry and his irritating entourage that ultimately disrupted his planned apathy.

It was Tuesday afternoon before Harry finally caught up with Sal; his previous attempts at communication had all been masterfully foiled by the very dedicated Professor Snape. Harry finally managed it, in partnership with Hermione, shortly after Sal had finished sweeping the charred remains of feathers out of the Charms classroom. They cornered him in a quiet section of the second floor corridor and bundled him into an empty room, behind a heavy tapestry. Hermione immediately launched into a long monologue that was beyond Sal's comprehension, particularly as he'd caught his back on the stonework on his way into the room, and he was trying very hard to remember how to breathe. He was also stunned that they'd bothered to seek him out again. He'd been perfectly convinced that Hermione would forget all about him and any promises she'd made, over the course of the weekend, even if Harry had proven himself to be dedicated to his word. Hermione smiled warmly at Sal, and he forced himself to focus on her words.

"So you see, Sal, we've worked out the perfect solution. Colin will teach you how to read and in the meantime I'll keep looking in the library for anything that might help us," she said hurriedly, words tripping over themselves to get out of her mouth. Sal had no idea who 'Colin' was, but forced himself not to dwell on that and instead to pay attention, as Hermione continued. "Of course, it's very likely we'll find something before you're able to manage any research on your own, but we still need to teach you how to read. It's despicable that no one ever bothered to show you." Hermione fixed Sal with what was meant to be an encouraging look, but Sal thought she looked rather frenzied. "Also, having clear, achievable goals is meant to be incredibly useful for helping people in abusive circumstances to feel in control of their situation." Hermione rattle off the words as if she had been practising them for weeks. Sal thought, with deep distaste, that she sounded like she was reciting her Creed.

Sal sighed and tried not to let her see his irritation. He desperately did not want to engage with these two again. The last time he had done so, he'd ended up bloody, bleeding, and humiliated. It was not an experience he wished to repeat. The difficulty, however, would be in convincing Harry and Hermione to leave him alone, without confessing to them that he was an absolute coward who was scared of getting into trouble again. There wasn't really much more of a reason in his avoidance than that, and he sickened himself with his own weakness. The air was heavy with an uncomfortable silence, as Sal tried to think of the politest way to tell them both to fuck off.

He finally decided on a quiet, "Thank you for all your help," as he smiled and bowed his head courteously. Hermione's face fell; she had clearly been anticipating more enthusiasm. Sal continued on dauntlessly. "However, I don't think this will work. I'm very sorry, but I don't think I'll be able to find time away from my work. I think it will be better if you leave this alone." Hermione looked confused and upset, but Harry was watching him closely, with a shrewd look in his eye. He'd been doing that since they'd first caught up to Sal in the corridor.

"Are you okay?" Harry asked quietly. "We didn't get you into trouble the other day, did we?" Sal stilled abruptly and found himself lost for words. He didn't think anyone had ever been bothered about getting him into trouble. It was, in fact, Dunstan's prime source of entertainment. He swallowed quickly and tried to reaffirm his resolution. He was not getting involved with these people – they would cause him nothing but trouble.

Harry was looking at him with terrible understanding. To his horror, Sal found that his eyes were starting to prickle; he nearly broke into tears for the second time that week. He forced himself to take a deep breath, and he was pleased when his voice came out cold and impersonal.

"No," Sal replied calmly, "you didn't get me into trouble." Harry raised an eyebrow, and Sal resisted the urge to glare at him. How dare Harry see through him so easily? Years of practise allowed Sal to hide his irritation, and he bowed his head, patiently waiting for Harry's response. Sal saw Hermione shifting uncomfortably out of the corner of his eye, but deliberately ignored her. It was Harry that he was worried about; Harry was shrewd.

"Alright," Harry finally replied, his voice soft, "just…look, if you need any help…we can help you, okay? If you need it." He looked like he wanted to say something more, but he shot a quick glance at Hermione, and he stopped himself. She had turned to look at Sal with wide eyes, pale with sudden realisation.

"Are you hurt?" she asked abruptly, and Harry winced behind her. "I mean, did someone hurt you?" She drew herself up with righteous fury, and Sal was torn between confusion and sheer awe at the concern in her voice.

"It's fine," he replied quickly, "I just…" He searched again for a way to get them to leave him alone, without confessing his abject cowardice. He failed. "May as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb" he reminded himself sternly, and took a deep breath. "I found myself on the wrong side of Mr Filch the other day. It was my fault, of course, but I don't want to risk doing anything that will…m-make anything worse." He looked directly at Harry, who seemed to understand what Sal was trying to avoid saying.

Hermione, clearly, did not. "What kind of trouble?" she asked tensely. Sal didn't reply. "What kind of trouble?" she repeated, voice rising as she spoke. Sal flinched and looked at the floor; he didn't want to answer, but it would be unpardonable to ignore a direct question twice.

"He had me whipped," he confessed quietly, blood rushing to his cheeks in embarrassment. There were certain things that one didn't want to admit to, even if being punished wasn't considered that shameful, if the recipient was a slave. It would be like expecting a horse to blush when it was whipped into a gallop. Even so, Sal found himself feeling incredibly ashamed. Despite numerous attempts to beat it out of him and against his own best interests, Sal maintained the same obstinate pride that he'd carried from childhood – back when he'd been free.

There was a long silence following his words, and Sal couldn't bring himself to look up; he didn't want to see the disdain on the faces of the other two, as it finally sunk in how pathetic a creature Sal was. How he was so disobedient that he'd had to be flogged to make him toe the line, and how he was so cowardly that he'd scorn their offers of help, rather than risk being punished again. That is, if they were still offering their help, which Sal highly doubted. Nobody ever stuck around very long after they realised what Sal truly was. Harry cleared his throat, and Sal fought down a flinch.

"Right. Okay," Harry spoke quietly, but firmly. "Listen, if you don't feel safe, or comfortable, or whatever, talking to us, then I understand. But we still want to help you." He waited until Sal glanced up and then met his eyes steadily. "If you need anyone to look at you, at your back or whatever," Sal flushed, but Harry ignored him and carried on, "then we can do that. Just say the word." Sal stayed silent, and Harry let out a soft sigh. "Okay, we'll leave you alone. For now. But I'll come and find you tomorrow, after lunch. We're not giving up on this, mate. Or on you, okay?" Sal nodded tightly, not believing Harry's promise, but not willing to contradict him. Hermione's eyes were darkening with frustration, but Harry ignored her. "We'll teach you how to read, and we'll help you find a way to escape your master, and we'll do whatever else we bloody can to help you, alright? Because we want to help you. And because no one should be laying a finger on you. Not here at Hogwarts, not like that." Harry's voice was soft, but resolute, if not a little pained. It was a good speech, it was everything that someone hurt, and alone, and scared wanted to hear. Sal suspected that Harry had had a version kicking around his head for a while.

Sal nodded once and left as quickly as he could. Hermione had looked as if she were about to explode, and Sal had not wanted to wait around for the aftermath.

The rest of the day he spent thinking over what Harry had said to him. He wasn't certain that he could trust the other boy, but Harry's words had come from the heart, that Sal was sure of. Sal strongly suspected that Harry was attempting to help him, in an effort to save something within himself, but Sal declined to contemplate that too much. Whatever Harry's motivations were, they were his own. Even if it was an exercise in futility; Sal was a slave, and he very much doubted that a couple of teenagers could do very much to change that fact. But still. He couldn't help but dwell on the other part of Harry and Hermione's offer: he could learn how to read. That…that was enticing. For as long as he could remember, he'd found the idea of reading and writing to be, for want of a better word, magical. The idea that someone could have a thought and write it down, and then another person could come across it months (or even years later) and read it and know exactly what the first person thought? That was completely incredible. Besides, the sum of all wizarding knowledge of magical theory was tucked away in heavy books, locked away from the common, illiterate man: the province of the nobility. If he could read, then endless information would be at his fingertips. He could learn anything. Even if Hermione failed to find a way out of his debt, and he stayed a slave for years to come (which was the most likely outcome of events), he'd still be able to read. He'd still be able to learn. That was a thought worth risking another whipping for.

When Harry came back the next day, Sal had his answer ready. He agreed to meet with Harry and his friends that evening after dinner, on the seventh floor, outside the portrait of the dancing trolls. Sal was nervous, but confident that he could avoid Filch for long enough to meet his new reading instructor. He spent the rest of the day in a state of nervous tension, not quite sure that he was actually going to go through with it, but shivering with anticipation regardless. The closer it got to the arranged meeting time, the more Sal was convinced that something would come along and stop him; Filch would lock him in his room, Dunstan would arrive and demand his services for the master, or the heavens themselves would open and strike him down before he could attend the meeting. But none of those things happened. It was, in the end, embarrassingly easy for Sal to 'retire' early to bed and then sneak out of Filch's chambers. He made the journey up to the seventh floor on shaking legs, waiting for the unseen axe to fall. By the time he found the right painting, Sal was about ready to give up the whole endeavour and run back to Filch with his tail between his legs. But the thought of reading kept his nerves firmly in check. He swallowed down his fear and clasped his hands behind his back, willing them to stop shaking. He took a deep breath and waited for Harry to arrive. 

* * *

 

Harry had learnt his lesson last year about being a moody git, but he was very close to losing his temper with Hermione in the middle of the library. He bent his head back over the page, gritted his teeth, and forced himself to reread the same paragraph he'd been studying for the past ten minutes. He had organised a meeting with Sal later in the evening, and was trying to finish his Transfiguration homework before it. Trying, being the operative word.

"Honestly, Harry, we should go to Madam Pomfrey with all of this. I know you disagree, but you have to think about this carefully," Hermione was speaking very quickly and very urgently at the top of his head, as she had been for quite a while. "Sal could be in danger. I've been reading, and there are all sorts of complications that can come from wounds being left untreated! Besides, what's the point in trying to gain his trust, if all the good faith we establish teaching him to read can be blown away the minute his master decides to get involved?" Harry closed his eyes and fought back a sigh; reminding himself that he did care for Hermione very much. "This could be very serious!" Hermione continued fiercely, leaning forwards and plonking a book of medical spells on top of Harry's textbook. "Look at this! He could get septicaemia!" Harry let out a long sigh, forcing his temper back into a tight knot in his chest. "Are you even listening to me?" she hissed at him, and Harry felt his control snap.

"Yes, Hermione, I've been listening to you for the past half an hour, and I still don't agree with you." Harry's voice was a low growl. A frantic voice at the back of his mind was telling him urgently to stop, but his blood was already boiling. "I know that he should go to the Hospital Wing and get it checked out. I know there's a risk of him getting blood poisoning if any of those wounds get infected. Hermione, hell, I bet he know that himself, even if they don't call it the same thing where he's from, or understand what the hell is going on medically." Harry felt the irritation he'd been supressing for the last thirty minutes flooding out of him with his hissed words. He loved Hermione dearly, but there were some things that she just couldn't understand. "But he won't do that, Hermione, he can't risk going to the Hospital Wing, because that will just make things worse!"

"But how?" Hermione sounded frustrated, "I don't understand." Her face was set in the wrinkled expression she got when Professor McGonagall posed a difficult question, or when she was trying to last five minutes against Ron at chess. "Since when is asking for help a bad thing?"

Harry felt his anger leave him abruptly, like someone had flicked a switch somewhere in his brain. He suddenly felt very tired, very old, and very glad that this was one thing Hermione had never had to learn. He took a deep breath, and tried to think of the best way to explain it to her. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and fixed his eyes on the gruesome medical pictures in Hermione's textbook. "So he goes to the Hospital Wing, Hermione. They heal him," he told her quietly, watching as her expression smoothed out at his changed tone, "but they tell his master."

"Where are you going with this?" Hermione asked in confusion.

Harry held up a hand to hold off her response. "Let me finish, Hermione," he told her calmly. "They tell his master, who whips him again for running off and whining to someone." He held up one finger. "That's the first scenario." He met her eyes squarely, and she nodded for him to continue his explanation. "The second scenario," he held up another finger, "is that he goes there and they can heal him, but they won't." He shrugged. "And they still tell his master." Hermione was looking at Harry with a very focused expression on her face. Harry dropped his fingers and reached back to rub his neck, feeling very self-conscious. He sighed and leant back in his chair. "Or worse than either of those two…He goes to the hospital wing, makes himself vulnerable by asking someone for help, and they laugh him out of the room." Harry stared at the ceiling. "They tell him it's not that bad, that he deserves it, that he's being weak and should know better than whining about it." Harry shrugged, looking back at Hermione, as he smiled at her wryly. "And then they tell his master."

"Harry…?" Hermione was looking at him oddly, and she had gone very quiet. "That's not what would happen. Not at all. Madam Pomfrey would be disgusted – any teacher would be disgusted – at what Filch did. He had no right! This is Hogwarts! They'd be outraged." Her voice was very insistent, and Harry suddenly felt the need to change the subject very quickly.

"No, Hermione," he said firmly. "Just trust me on this one." He hurried to get his next sentence out, before she could interrupt him. "Maybe you're right. Maybe the teachers would rush in and sort everything out, and this whole bloody mess would be wrapped up in time for tea and toast before bed. But if you're wrong… Sal won't risk it." He looked at her sternly, hoping that, for once, she'd trust something he said over something she'd read in a book. "You push him on this and he won't trust you at all. He'll stop talking to us completely."

Hermione looked very tearful. "Then what can we do?"

Harry shrugged as he closed the medical textbook and handed it gently back to her. He forced his eyes back to his Transfiguration work, trying to ignore the churning feeling in his gut. "We try and help him as much as we can. I asked Professor Slughorn for a bruise salve, earlier. Told him I got hit by a nasty bludger in practice, and the Hospital Wing had run out." He flicked back to the paragraph that he had been trying (and failing) to understand before. "I have some antiseptic cream in my bag too. We can tell him to go to Madam Pomfrey later, but when he says no…well it'll be better than nothing." He looked up at Hermione and shot her a quick smile. "That's what I'm going to do anyway; what about you?"

The silence was so brittle he could have cracked it with a feather. Thankfully, the library was almost empty. The only other students were a couple of frantic looking seventh-year Ravenclaws who looked to be on the brink of NEWT-induced nervous breakdowns, so no one had been paying attention to their hushed row. Hermione waited for a long moment, before getting up and walking away. There were a few anxious minutes where Harry half-hoped and half-feared she'd run off to find a teacher; it would not have been the first time in their friendship that she'd not trusted his judgement. She returned to the table with a rueful smile, carrying a large stack of books in her hands. Harry let out a sigh of relief.

They worked in silence together for a while. Harry tried to focus on his homework, but his mind was too busy turning itself inside out worrying. The truth was that Hermione was probably right; it was probably better to tell someone. In an ideal world they could run to the Professors and trust them to solve all their problems with a flick of a magic wand. He'd thought that way too, when he had first come to Hogwarts, entranced by the sheer possibilities that magic presented. He'd thought it could make everything better. He knew better now. He'd gone to McGonagall the week before with his concerns about Sal, and she'd sent him away with a pat on the head. She'd done the same thing in first year, when Quirrell was after the stone, and the year before when Umbridge was making him slice his hand open almost every night. Snape was, well, Snape; it would be a cold day in hell before Harry ran to him for help. The rest of the teachers, Hagrid sadly included, pretty much let Dumbledore sort everything out and deferred to the Headmaster's opinion.

That was Harry's biggest problem. As much as it pained him to think it, it was Dumbledore who'd sent Sal off with Filch in the first place; he'd left Sal in the hands of a vindictive bully who delighted in intimidating people smaller and weaker than him, and Sal had been hurt. Harry wasn't sure he could handle it if he ran to Dumbledore, told him what had happened to Sal, and got brushed aside. No, he couldn't trust the teachers, as much as he wanted too. It was safer for them to help Sal on their own.

He closed his book with a resigned sigh, accepting that he'd probably never comprehend how and why silent casting affected the exponential growth of bone density in mammal to reptile transfiguration. He took a quick look at Hermione; she was scanning through a very thick tome with a determined expression on her face. Harry worried that he'd upset her, even if he knew he was right.

"Sorry, Hermione," he began in a whisper, knowing that it was much easier to start with an apology and work from there.

"For what, Harry?" Hermione asked wryly, sinking further into the chair opposite him. "You're just doing what you think is for the best." For the first time, Harry noticed the deep purple bags under her eyes; she looked exhausted, and he berated himself for not noticing sooner.

"Found anything interesting?" he asked her, with a smile. It was a terrible attempt at a peace offering, and Harry knew that Hermione had not left the Sal problem drop, but she smiled anyway and let the conversation move on.

"Actually, I think I might have. I'm researching life debts," she told him quickly, a glimmer of excitement in her eyes. Harry gestured for her to explain, and she immediately jumped at the opportunity to teach him something that was both confusing and probably beyond his ability to understand. "When I found that book the other day, I realised how little I knew about the magic involved. They're part of this fascinating branch of obscure magic. I think I've found something related to fealty oaths…oh, but to understand that, I'd need to explain about the power coefficient in spells of obligation…"

Harry smiled as Hermione began an academic rant that he had absolutely no hope of understanding. He let her talk for almost an hour as she pulled books from shelves and pointed his attention to important paragraphs. She excitedly pushed tome after tome of heavy academic prose in front of him and then pulled them from under his nose (before he'd had time to read them), replacing each book with another, even more incompressible than the previous.

By the time she'd talked herself to a standstill, they had managed to smooth over the earlier argument, and Harry had learnt quite a bit (though doubtless not nearly as much as Hermione would have wished him too). He had learnt, for example, that life debts were very serious magic brought about when a wizard or witch saves the life of another. He also now knew that this made some kind of contract, meaning that the person who had been saved quite literally owed their life to the person who rescued them; that made a debt that they then had to pay, one way or another. That was the one thing that Hermione had made abundantly clear; if you saved someone's life, you could force them to do anything, for as long as you wanted, and they'd be forced to obey. If they didn't, the magic of the debt could kill them. The thought made Harry sick.

The only exception that Hermione could find was one tiny reference in some ancient, nearly illegible, old diary. She had pointed to a single line that said life debts didn't apply to those "þat trewest wer knauen". Harry had stared at the page for a good few minutes before he gave in and asked Hermione to translate. At that point she'd huffed in frustration and explained that she didn't properly know. Apparently it could mean people who were known to be very trustworthy, in general, or it could also mean people that were particularly trusted by the person who held the life debt. Harry hadn't really understood what that meant, but he'd thought that the second option sounded much better.

Harry allowed himself a few moments to process as much of the information as he could. There was a lot to take in. The whole concept of a life debt made him feel ill. Sacrifice was an act of love; he didn't like the idea that magic could turn something that pure into something as evil as slavery. In fact, the more that he thought about it, the more it didn't make any sense. Harry's mum had put herself between him and Voldemort, in order to save his life. She'd died to protect him, but he didn't have some kind of magical noose around his neck because of it. Her sacrifice had given him something; it had gifted him the protection of her magic, it hadn't demanded something of him in return. Harry decided there and then that half of the stuff in Hermione's books had to be rubbish. He bet that the magic only enforced a debt in special circumstances, like if you didn't really know or like the person whose life you'd saved. Or maybe if it were a certain Tuesday of the year, under a full moon – magic could be weird. He thought of rescuing Ginny from Riddle in second year; he didn't like to think that she owed him anything for that, at all.

He told Hermione his theory with probably a little more bite than was necessary. She tried to argue the lack of academic evidence, pointing at book after book, before he snapped and lost his temper for the second time that evening.

"I think I'd know by know if I owed life debts to my parents, Hermione," he said tartly. She shrank back and apologised profusely, but Harry was busy shaking his head; he already felt guilty for bringing it up. This whole thing with the Founders and Sal was making him very uncomfortable, and he knew that he was taking his frustration out on her. "Sorry," he sighed, "that was out of order. I think I'm just a bit tired. This is a lot to take in." Hermione smiled at him and nodded. It might just have been his paranoia speaking, but it seemed like her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. He felt about three inches tall. He was a complete git. They fell into an awkward silence, whilst Hermione quietly tidied away the books with a terrifying efficiency that paid testament to just how intimately she knew the Hogwarts library. She nodded to Madam Pince on the way out, and they headed off to the Great Hall for dinner.

The house tables were, as usual, laden almost to the point of collapse with large dishes of food, silver trays full of plump sausages and mounds of fluffy, white mashed potato. The sight made Harry forget about the last remnants of his bad mood, as he sat down at the Gryffindor table and helped himself to spoonful after spoonful. He drenched the whole lot in gravy and tucked in. Half a plate later, he finally surfaced for air and caught Hermione's eye; she was looking at him with a mix of fondness and exasperation, and he realised that he was probably forgiven. He sent her a sheepish smile and waved apologetically at the plate in front of him, stuffing another forkful in his mouth. She outright laughed at his antics, and he felt a sudden rush of affection for his friend.

There was a particularly loud bark of laughter, and Harry glanced down the table, looking for the source. Ron was holding court with a bunch of fourth-years – and Lavender Brown, of course –, bragging about his final save in the last Quidditch match. To hear him tell it, he had all but single-handedly rescued the match from outright ruin. Harry was a little annoyed at Ron for that; it had been a close call at the end, and he thought his head-to-head chase to grab the snitch, and victory, from the grasping hands of the Slytherin seeker had been rather daring. As Ron's story became more and more ridiculous and elaborate – at one point Harry swore he heard Ron say that he'd taken a direct bludger hit to the face, as he caught the Quaffle by the tips of his fingers – Hermione's smile started to slip away. Harry felt a sudden desire to deck Ron in the face. Making a snap decision for the sake of both of his friendships, he stood up and beckoned Hermione to follow him out of the hall. As he cast one last, mournful look over his shoulder at his half-eaten plate, he saw Lavender almost sat on Ron's knee, fawning over him like Pansy Parkinson did with Malfoy. He took one look at Hermione's miserable expression, and decided that he'd made the noble, chivalrous decision. But he had really wanted those sausages.

They made their way up to the seventh floor, where they had agreed to meet Sal. They were also going to be joined by Colin Creevey who, on Ginny's recommendation, had been chosen to teach Sal the basics of reading and writing. Harry had been a bit uncertain about trusting the excitable fifth year with the responsibility of actually teaching anyone anything important. Ginny had sent him a withering glare and informed him that Colin was a very good teacher, who knew a lot more than people gave him credit for, thank you very much. "Sound familiar?" she'd asked, pointedly. Harry had flushed bright red and quickly (and wisely) conceded the point.

As they reached the Room of Requirement, Harry was quietly thrilled to see that Sal was waiting for them. He was standing under the portrait, arms crossed and looking massively uncomfortable. As he saw them approach, however, he stood up straight and tried his best to look unaffected. It was a good effort; his expression was neutral, his eyes betrayed nothing, and his body language gave nothing away. If Harry hadn't seen him moments before, he would have sworn that the other boy was bored. Harry shivered slightly in distaste; with a small upturn of his nose and a slight look of disdain, Sal could pass for the perfect Slytherin, even dressed in rags.

"I'm glad you showed up," Harry told him honestly. "We're just waiting on Colin and then we can get cracking."

"I've picked out a few books to get you started," Hermione chipped in brightly. Sal nodded courteously at them both, but said nothing. Hermione's smile faltered slightly, and the three of them fell into an awkward silence. Thankfully, Colin was punctual and they weren't waiting around for too long. He hurried up the corridor towards them, out of breath, dragging a large wicker hamper behind him.

"Sorry I'm late," he told Harry cheerfully and waved at Sal in greeting. "Just had to pick up a few bits and bobs."

As Colin was going to be teaching, they collectively decided that he should be the one to open the Room. He paced back and forwards in front of it with a focused expression, whilst Sal looked on in complete confusion. As soon as the door appeared, Colin's face broke into a wide grin.

"I did it!" he exclaimed, and rushed forwards to open the door.

Harry followed him in and was impressed at what the Room had become. It was a cosy sitting room, with a few soft looking armchairs and a large sofa, all arranged around a bleached walnut coffee table. There were pretty watercolour landscapes all over the walls, and a large amount of framed muggle photographs jumbled together on top of the mantelpiece, each vying for prominence. Mismatched throw pillows lay over the chairs, scattered over fleecy blankets, and a small fire crackled away to itself in the fireplace. If it weren't for the hideous brown anaglypta wallpaper and contrasting, painfully bright, multi-coloured floral carpet, Harry would have found the place quite cosy.

"It's my nan's lounge," Colin explained with a blush. "It's where I learnt to read."

Sal followed them in cautiously, trying his best to look unmoved by the appearance that the room had taken. But Harry could see his wide eyes flickering around the room, soaking up the sight of the strange objects. Sal's eyes went to the photographs and stayed there for a long time.

"Right," Colin declared, rubbing his hands together and striding forward into the room. "Pick a pew, everyone. Let's get started. I took a trip down to the kitchens on my way here, because I thought we might need a bit of an ice-breaker."

Harry sank into the cosy armchair closest to the fire, as Colin pulled something out his hamper and set it on the coffee table. Harry was pleased to see that it was a tea tray, complete with a huge steaming teapot, milk jug, and bowl of sugar cubes.

Harry grinned at Colin. "I'll be mother, then," he informed the room, leaning forwards to pour the tea. He had just handed Hermione her cup, when he realised he had no idea how Colin drank his. "Milk and sugar?" he asked, a little embarrassed.

"Please. Two sugars," Colin supplied distractedly, as he coaxed Sal into sitting next to him on the sofa. Sal sat down warily, perched on the edge of the seat.

"Tea?" Harry asked Sal, as he found a coaster and put Colin's mug in front of him, carefully placing it just out of arm's length. He'd once seen Colin get carried away with a story and launch a full mug of coffee over half the Gryffindor table and a passing Professor Flitwick. It paid to be prudent.

Harry looked up to see that Sal was staring at him very blankly indeed. Harry indicated to the pot, as Sal continued to look at him like he'd just offered him poison. Hermione coughed politely from the armchair on the other side of the room. It suddenly occurred to Harry that they most definitely did not have tea in the Dark Ages, and he blushed slightly.

"It's a drink," he explained quickly, "Do you want one?"

Sal looked at him warily for a long minute before nodding slowly. Harry heaved a sigh of relief and busied himself with the familiar ritual of making a cuppa. He had no idea what Sal would like, so he just made two versions to his own taste and hoped for the best. He served Sal quickly, anxious that he was holding up the room, and sank back into his chair, cradling his mug in his hands. He wished that Colin had brought a plate of biscuits.

"Right, I think we're ready to start," Colin announced suddenly. He had assembled a selection of picture books on the coffee table, along with a variety of muggle literacy guides. Harry vaguely remembered them having something similar at his primary school. "So, here's how I was thinking we should do this," Colin continued, turning to look directly at Sal, who seemed half-excited, half-terrified at the whole situation. "I want to figure out how much you know already, so I can get a sense of where you're starting from. I'll plan where we go from there."

As Colin spoke, Harry studied Sal. He was perched on the edge of the sofa, as if he were uncertain about sitting on it. Harry was struck with the sudden memory of the first time he had slept in a bed, back on his first night in Dudley's Second Bedroom. He'd been terrified his uncle was going to come upstairs and beast him for having the gall to touch Dudley's furniture; it had seemed too good to be true. Harry shook himself and brought his mind back to the present.

"Is that okay?" Colin was asking Sal.

"Yes, master." Sal replied obediently, nodding his head. There was a pause as everyone processed what he had just said. Hermione almost wailed in distress, and Harry jumped slightly, nearly spilling hot tea down his front.

"No, no I'm no one's master," Colin stuttered hastily, looking stricken. "Just call me Colin, please."

Sal looked at him for a long moment, looking confused.

"You are to be my teacher?" he asked Colin cautiously, as if afraid of being contradicted.

"Well, yes."

"Then I should call you master." Sal decided briskly. He seemed uncharacteristically insistent on that fact. Hermione went to speak, and Sal shot her a surprisingly stern look. "It's a mark of respect," he said firmly. "It was what I called my teacher when I was his apprentice. I understand you call your teachers 'Professor' here?" He waited for them all to nod in agreement. "It's the same principle.

"Um…thank you?" Colin replied awkwardly. "But I really don't feel comfortable being called that. I'd rather you called me anything other than that, actually. Christ, even 'Professor' is better than master."

Sal smiled suddenly, and Harry was startled by how young it made him look. It was an impish grin, sly and sudden. It was gone almost as soon as it had appeared, but Sal's eyes were still laughing as he replied to Colin. "Then I shall call you 'Professor', Professor," he said with excessive demureness. Harry couldn't help but laugh at the appalled look on Colin's face, as the younger boy reluctantly agreed to his new title. He was pleased to see that Sal was comfortable enough with them to show a little bit of his sense of humour.

Colin started leading Sal through a couple of basic exercises, but it became apparent very soon that his student had no grasp of even the basics of letters and punctuation. Harry suspected that Sal had never held so much as a pencil in his life.

"I'm sorry," Sal said quietly, face burning with embarrassment. Colin had just shown him a series of cards and asked him to identify the letters on each. Sal had stared blankly at them until Colin took them away and made a note with his quill in a spiral-bound notepad.

"Don't be sorry!" Colin told him firmly. "It's not your fault you've never been taught. Like I said, I just needed to get a grasp of how much you know. Now I know where we're working from. We'll start from the beginning and go from there."

Colin placed the letter cards out on the table and patiently took Sal through the alphabet, explaining the difference between capital and lower case letters and teaching Sal the different sounds that they made. Colin digressed briefly to quickly explain vowels and consonants, and Harry was suddenly struck by how good a teacher Colin was proving to be. He was patient and calm, answering Sal's questions quickly and confidently. Harry was very glad that they hadn't left this to Hermione, as had been originally planned. She was incredibly clever, but Harry somehow doubted she'd be able to go through something so basic, in such a systematic method. When Colin next declared a break, taking a long sip from his undoubtedly lukewarm tea, without casting a warming charm over it, Harry spoke up.

"You're a great teacher," Harry said, smiling as Colin blushed.

"Thanks," the younger student replied. "I've been doing over the summer for years. I really struggled to learn myself. I have this thing, I don't know how much wizards know about it, but it's called dyslexia." Harry nodded, surprised. He knew what it was, of course. Harry and Dudley's Year Three teacher had told Aunt Petunia, one parent's evening, that she'd like to have Dudley tested for it. Uncle Vernon had pitched a fit when he heard. To the Dursleys, having a learning difficulty was almost as bad as having magic, and no son of theirs would be branded abnormal. They had refused to talk about it any further, and that had been that. So Harry thought he knew the basics, but no more than that. He hadn't been allowed to ask questions, after all.

"I've heard of it," Harry told him, finally. "But only in the muggle world." Colin smiled ruefully and nodded.

"Yeah, it's a muggle diagnosis, though a fair few wizards have it too – they just don't have a definition for it, yet. We're still learning loads about it. Still, research has come a long way in the past ten years." Colin turned to look at Sal, who was sipping his tea with a very fixed look of polite enjoyment and trying hard to mask his confusion. "Basically I struggle to read, too," Colin explained to Sal, "For me, the letters get all jumbled together, and I can't tell one from the other. It's not really that common in the Wizarding World, so I doubt you'll have it too. But I know loads of tricks for making things a bit easier, if you do. Like we can change the colour of the parchment or use this charm that makes weird handwriting easier to read. Professor McGonagall showed them to me way back in first year, to help me with my homework; I used them all the time, before I found out about self-correcting quills and got a bit lazy." Colin smiled brightly at Sal and changed a scrap of parchment from bright pink to blue and then back to its original colour. Sal stared at the casual display of magic, before he sighed slightly and picked up the alphabet cards again with quiet determination.

Harry refreshed the pot and poured another round of tea as Colin ran through the alphabet a few more times, before calling it a night. As they were packing up, Colin had a sudden brainwave and scribbled something on a piece of parchment, handing it to Sal with a beaming smile.

"What's this, Professor?" Sal asked cautiously, staring at the sheet. Harry smiled to himself as Colin blushed at the honorific; he'd been doing it all night, and Harry only found it funnier the longer it went on.

"Do you recognise the letters?" Colin asked brightly. At Sal's tentative nod, he continued. "Sound them out then!"

Sal stared at the paper in front of him for a long minute. "This one's 'suh'," he said, pointing to the parchment. "And this one's 'ah'. But I can't remember the last one. I'm sorry, Professor." He hung his head as he indicated the last letter on the parchment.

"Don't be sorry, you're doing incredibly well!" Colin insisted. "That's 'el'." Sal looked at the letters again and repeated the sound with ferocious determination. "Try sounding it out now," Colin encouraged. He broke into a large smile as Sal brought the sounds together for the first time. Harry felt his chest lurch as he found himself grinning widely; there was something incredible about watching a person read their own name for the first time.

Sal repeated the sounds, an odd look on his face as he started to understand what Colin was trying to show him. He tried again and stuttered on the letter 's', looking vaguely sick.

"Professor, that one's in my name?" he asked Colin quietly, his voice taut with some strange emotion.

"It's the first letter," Colin assured him confidently. Sal took a deep breath, his fingers fluttering up to touch his chest, just above his heart. He nodded tightly, and added the scrap of parchment to the pile on the table. Harry had no idea what to make of that interaction.

They parted ways soon after, with Sal and Colin agreeing to meet back at the room in two days' time. Harry didn't feel the need to join them for the next lesson, and he suspected that Hermione felt the same way; Colin clearly knew what he was talking about. As Sal peeled off to head towards Filch's office, Harry quietly slipped him the jar of salve and the antiseptic cream that he had brought to the meeting. Sal was clearly startled, but didn't say anything. Harry nodded at him briefly and then continued up to Gryffindor Tower, with Colin and Hermione in tow. Colin was chatting eagerly with Hermione about the books that she'd brought with her. They had been far beyond Sal's level of ability, but Colin thought that they could be useful later down the line.

As they entered the common room, Harry headed straight for the dorms, leaving Colin and Hermione to their academic conversation. He was exhausted, and Hermione was on a roll; Harry suspected that they'd be talking for hours yet. He yawned a quick "Goodnight," as Colin rifled around in his wicker basket for a book to show Hermione. Harry was pleased with how the night had gone; Colin had proven himself to be an unexpectedly good teacher – well-organised and focused.

"Oh fuck!" Harry halted, foot on the first stair, at Colin's sudden exclamation.

"What is it?" Harry asked as he turned round, wand ready. Colin blushed, waving a small packet in his right hand.

"Sorry, it's nothing," Colin hurried to explain, "I just forgot that I'd brought biscuits for us all."

Harry turned and marched up the stairs without another word. He took back every nice thing he'd just been thinking about Colin; that had been a packet of shortbread.

Later that night, Harry was lying in bed, unable to sleep. He'd tried to get an early night, but he had failed miserably. The rest of the dorm was snoring loudly, apart from Ron, whose bed was suspiciously empty. Harry tried very hard not to think about what exactly that meant, as he was pretty certain that Ron hadn't found a way around the charmed staircase that led up to the girls' dorms, and he didn't want spend the rest of his time at Hogwarts feeling uncomfortable every time he walked past a broom cupboard.

Harry had managed to fall into a light doze when Ron came sneaking through the dormitory door. Harry sat bolt upright, startled, reaching for his wand. Ron jumped half a foot in the air.

"Fucking hell, mate, it's just me," Ron whispered, holding his hands up, as Harry lowered his wand and wrapped the duvet up to his chin. Ron picked his way with startling dexterity through the piles of clothes, books, and assorted junk that were strewn around his bed. Harry was impressed; that was quite a feat in the dark. Ron finally hopped over his last obstacle, a dog-eared copy of Quidditch Through the Ages, and threw himself on his bed, fully clothed, letting out a loud yawn.

"Sorry," Harry said quietly, conscious that the others were sleeping.

"It's fine," Ron yawned widely, again, and pulled himself into a sitting position, lighting his wand with a silent lumos. "I was trying not to wake you up, but I see it's a bit late for that." Harry lit his wand in return and the two friends smiled at each other across the dorm. "You alright , mate?" Ron asked him nonchalantly. "Busy week?"

Harry frowned, feeling guilty. He'd been neglecting Ron for the past few days, what with his ongoing (and fruitless) investigation into the Founders and his long chats with Hermione. He felt like a terrible friend. He went to apologise, but noticed that Ron was smiling widely at him.

"Git," Harry told him, and chucked a pillow across the room. Ron ducked, chuckling quietly, catching the pillow with impeccable Keeper precision.

"You going to fill me in, then?" Ron asked, smiling widely as he tucked Harry's pillow behind his back and settled down comfortably, waiting for the story.

Harry quickly brought Ron up to date on the events of the last week, including Hermione's research into life debts. Ron looked thoughtful for a moment.

"I can ask Bill what he knows. I reckon curse breakers probably deal with that sort of thing all the time." Ron scratched his forehead as he thought. "Our best bet would probably be someone in the DMLE, but I don't know anyone who works in contracts. That's mainly all old pureblood families."

Harry agreed that asking Bill was a good idea and politely ignored the fact that Ron hadn't mentioned Percy, the brother who would probably be the best source of information for magical legal trivia.

"So what's this Sal bloke like then?" Ron asked casually. "He any chattier than he was the other night?"

Harry hesitated slightly before continuing. He didn't quite know how to talk about Sal, or how to bring up his concerns. He settled instead for telling Ron about the incident with the spilt bucket, but that led to Filch's reaction, which led to Sal's revelation about the whipping, which led to the fight that he and Hermione had had.

"I don't want to get into anything, because I know you two are at each other's' throats at the moment," Harry warned Ron firmly, "but I think she's wrong on this one." Ron had gone very quiet across the room. "If we go blundering about telling teachers, we're just going to make everything worse, aren't we?" Harry sighed and threw his hands up in frustration. "I just wish that she'd trust that I might have a bit of an idea about something other than flying."

"You're not half bad with Dark Lords either, mate, don't sell yourself short," Ron reminded him with a grin. Harry rolled his eyes.

"You're all sympathy."

"Alright, you want my opinion, Harry?" Ron suddenly looked very serious. "I think you both have a point." He held up a hand to quiet Harry's protests. "If someone's being hurt, then, yeah, they really should tell someone about it… an adult, someone who knows what they're doing… But I also get that sometimes things aren't that black and white. I mean… The teachers aren't always the best at looking after us, are they?" Ron smiled ruefully. "At least none of them have tried to kill us so far this year. That's probably a new record, right?"

"Third year," Harry said after a moment's thought, and Ron deflated.

"Fine, whatever, but it's better than normal, and that says quite a bit considering that this is a fucking school." Harry had honestly never really thought about it that way. Hogwarts had always been better than Privet Drive, murderous staff members or no. Ron sniffed and scratched his nose. "It wasn't nearly this bad in Bill and Charlie's day."

"Hermione's convinced that Sal's going to collapse from blood poisoning, like he's had some kind of mortal wound," Harry told Ron bitterly. "She says if we don't say anything to the teachers, or persuade him to go to Madam Pomfrey then there's a chance he could get really ill."

"What do you think?" Ron asked quietly.

"I think he's fine, this time, and I reckon if we push him on it, he's not going to trust us when he really needs help. I left him some ointment and stuff, in case he needs it."

"This time," Ron echoed quietly. He had grown very still across the room.

"So you think I'm doing the right thing?" Harry prompted.

"Harry, mate, I don't think we're really meant to have the answers to this. Stuff like this…It's complicated, right? I don't think it's as simple as Hermione reckons it is, but I don't think that means we shouldn't do anything about it."

"I wasn't saying that," Harry bit back angrily.

"Didn't say you were, mate," Ron agreed smoothly. "For what it's worth, I agree with you. If you push him to tell you too much about himself, he's never going to trust you enough to tell you when things are properly wrong, and he'll probably run a mile if you start asking too many questions." Harry nodded firmly in agreement. "Sometimes you've just got to be there to pick up the pieces for other people, and that's the best you can do." Ron continued quietly, with a small sigh. "You can't do anything if he won't tell you anything, mate. And even then, we're sixteen! We can only do so much."

Harry bit back a retort on that one. They'd already done tons of things fully grown wizards would balk at, and they'd survived to tell the tale. "So you don't think we should say something to the teachers then?" Harry asked Ron quietly. He just wanted to clarify that he wasn't alone in thinking that. Last summer had proven that he couldn't always trust his gut, and he wasn't going to put anyone else in danger because he refused to take any advice. He owed Sirius that much.

"I think," Ron replied slowly and hesitantly, "I think that if you tell the teachers, they might tell you you're overreacting and that there isn't anything to worry about." Harry nodded again, he'd thought that too. "They might tell you it's out of their hands, but that you should keep an eye out in case things get worse." Harry hadn't thought of that one, but he thought that it sounded like something Dumbledore might say. Ron took a deep breath and looked Harry in the eye. "If Sal finds out that you went to someone about this…Then he might not trust you again. He won't tell you if anything is really bad, even though he really, really should."

Ron looked very pale, very young, and very earnest in the light from his wand. Harry smiled and thanked him for his advice. He was glad that it wasn't just him that thought that way, and he was pretty certain that Ron wasn't just taking his side to get one over on Hermione.

Harry muttered a quick "Goodnight," and lay back on his pillows, as Ron let out a heavy sigh in return. Harry doused his wand with a quick nox and listened as Ron's breathing steadily evened out into deep snores. He stared up at the canopy for a long time, contemplating what Ron had said, before he finally fell asleep.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nerdy notes below the line:
> 
> The line Hermione quotes "þat trewest wer knauen" is Middle English, it's based on the dialect of the Pearl poet, which is considered to be from around Cheshire, in the 14th Century. It's been a while since I last studied it though, so I defer to anyone with greater knowledge: if the grammar is off, please let me know.
> 
> Harry's comment about Sal probably never having held a pencil before is true, but mainly because pencils weren't around in the tenth century. Harry sleeps through history of magic, it's a miracle he remembered that tea came to England with colonialism.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, I said I'd have the next chapter up, and it's here!
> 
> TWs this chapter for: panic attack/ flashback and dissociation.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading, please review and let me know what you think.

It was a cold day in mid-December when Severus Snape finally managed to pull Draco into his office for a chat. Draco was significantly unimpressed; he'd thought he'd manage to avoid his Head of House until the New Year at the earliest. Apparently, Christmas brought out the conversationalist in some. He collapsed gracefully into the chair opposite Snape's desk, without waiting for an invitation; Snape stalked furiously around the desk to his own chair, as Draco basked in the radiant glow of his teacher's temper.

Draco smirked to himself; he was not above a bit of petty vengeance, and he was particularly annoyed at being pulled into what would undoubtedly be a pointless meeting, this close to the Christmas holidays. He had things to do, and he was far too busy to indulge Snape's nannyish fretting about his progress. Draco could manage quite well on his own, thank you very much. He was sick of being underestimated, and he had lost a lot of respect for Snape over the past few weeks because of it.

"What is this about?" he asked coldly, before Snape had a chance to speak. Snape looked at him sternly and clasped his hands in front of him, looking the picture of a reliable, helpful teacher. Draco wasn't fooled – he'd seen the man cast a cruciatus.

"Don't insult my intelligence, Draco. It's beneath you to try. We both know what I want to talk to you about." Snape sighed, dragging a tired hand across his face. Draco pursed his lips and gazed intently at the jars on the shelf behind Snape's head.

"Of course, my apologies, Professor. The first years are settling in nicely and we've finally worked out a patrolling system amongst the prefects that will take better account of Quidditch Practice. We can't have another game like the one against Gryffindor, this year." Draco kept his voice just an inch shy of insolent, and smirked. "That is what you meant, sir? You wanted to discuss my prefect duties. I can't think of any other reason you'd want to talk to me." Draco let his smirk drop and stared his Professor directly in the eyes. "If it were any other reason, I might accuse you of intervening unnecessarily." Last year, he wouldn't have dared talk to his Head of House in such a way, but a lot had changed since then. He'd spent the summer in the direct presence of both his psychotic Aunt and the Dark Lord himself, he was hardly about to be scared by the threat of detention: not anymore.

"I am trying to help you, Draco." Snape hissed at him through gritted teeth. Draco eyed him shrewdly. It was well known that Snape was close to the Dark Lord, that he was very much in their Lord's favour, even more so than some of the more enthusiastic Death Eaters, such as Draco's Auntie Bella. Draco knew that it was probably a little stupid to spurn Snape's offer for help, but he wanted to prove himself to the Dark Lord. He'd been hand-picked for this mission, chosen above all others. He wasn't about to go running to his Professor for help, just because it got a little difficult.

"And I've already told you. I don't need your help!" Draco spat disdainfully, as he went to stand up. "I am not discussing this with you anymore!" Snape sighed in defeat, and Draco leant back in his chair; he was not entirely relaxed, but nor was he as close to storming out as he had been mere moments ago. A long silence fell over them, as they both paused to regain their composure.

"As it so happens, there is something else that I wanted to discuss with you." Snape's voice was ice-cold, devoid of all emotion; his face was unreadable. Draco had to hand it to the man, he had an impeccable mask.

"Our illustrious visitors, I assume," Draco replied calmly. His fingers itched to go for his wand and curse that damned apathetic look from his teacher's face, but he kept his emotions under lock and key, and his face carefully blank. Draco had learnt a thing or two about masks, himself.

"Indeed."

"You have been following one of them rather closely," Draco allowed. He'd watched Snape circling Sal like an overprotective hippogriff for the past few weeks. It had amused Draco to watch Potter routed from his investigations time and time again – particularly as Potter had taken an uncomfortably deep interest in Draco's extra-curricular activities this year – but Snape's damned mothering had prevented Draco from his own analysis of Sal, and he was starting to get a little annoyed.

"As have you," Snape replied, looking at him shrewdly.

Draco flushed, despite himself. He thought he'd been quite careful in his little missions. He'd taken care to have Crabbe or Goyle stand watch and alert him whenever Filch was approaching. Of course, trusting those two idiots had been, as always, a risky endeavour. There had been a couple of occasions when he'd just barely slipped away before Filch arrived. He might no longer fear detention, but it was still an insulting waste of his time. He was not particularly desirous to earn any more of them, not while he had better things to be getting on with.

"Have you discovered anything to your interest?" Snape asked him mildly, but Draco could read between the lines to the real question.

"Do you mean: have I discovered that our dear Sal is actually the great Salazar Slytherin himself?" Draco tried to keep the pride from his voice; his mother had always told him that it was uncouth to gloat, and he was trying to listen to his mother more often these days.

"I do." Snape looked at him levelly. "I will not insult your intelligence asking how you came to the realisation; a concussed troll could probably make the connection" He paused and smirked slightly. "Potter does not suspect. Yet." Draco smiled widely in response and nodded, absolutely unwilling to admit that the only reason he'd known anything at all was that he'd accidentally overheard Professor Dumbledore having a quiet word on the subject with the portrait of Wendelin the Weird, near the Arithmency classroom.

"We have months before Potter realises anything," Draco dismissed the comment airily. "He takes months to discover anything of consequence, even with that filthy mudblood whispering in his ear." Draco raised an eyebrow and looked at his teacher in amusement. "Do you know that it took him most of third year to realise that Lupin was a werewolf, even when you all but told us outright in Defence. Merlin…" He shook his head and laughed. "I imagine that Potter will be almost into his dotage, before he finds his way round to the stick end of the broom."

"Do not completely underestimate Potter, Draco. The Dark Lord does not, and he is a far greater wizard than you." Snape looked at him firmly, and Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes. There was no point stating the obvious.

"Yes, of course. But even if Potter discovers the truth tomorrow, it will hardly be of any concern to the Dark Lord. Not when he himself has known for weeks!" Draco smirked and leaned back in his chair, happy to have won that particular point. Snape, on the other hand, stilled immediately and fixed Draco with a piercing look. Draco felt the smirk fade from his face.

"Draco, do you mean to tell me that you've spoken about this with the Dark Lord?" Snape's voice was disturbingly emotionless. Draco felt a deep thrill of fear strike through him.

"Yes, of course," he drawled arrogantly, beginning to feel a little uncomfortable. Had he done something wrong? "Why should I not tell the Dark Lord about his illustrious ancestor's presence at Hogwarts?" There, that was a safe way to ask if he'd done something unutterably stupid. But then, because he couldn't help himself, and because he was feeling rather defensive, he spoke up again. "You told the Dark Lord about the other Founders!" Draco was nearly seventeen years of age, almost a grown adult, and he most definitely did not whine, so there was no real excuse for the pitiful whinge that slipped past his lips. He blushed furiously, but met Snape's eyes despite the burning in his cheeks.

"Why not? Draco, do you even realise what you've done?" Snape looked slightly perturbed, and Draco felt his stomach drop to his knees. This was serious, then. "You stupid child. Do you have any idea what you've done?"

"I don't see what the problem is." Draco protested faintly, but he knew that there had to be one. Either that, or Snape had discovered a heretofore unknown sense of humour and was making malicious use of it to give Draco stress-induced heart palpitations.

"The problem, Draco, is that the boy walking these halls bears no real resemblance to the Salazar Slytherin that we know from legend." Snape's fists were clenched knuckle white on the table in front of him. "I am sure that has not escaped your notice."

"I couldn't work it out, at first," Draco admitted quietly. "I thought he was playing some kind of elaborate game with us. But then I realised: how could Salazar Slytherin be a slave?" Draco looked up at his Head of House, pleadingly. Sal had started to trust Draco enough to drop a few hints that he had something more at play, which eased Draco's concerns a little, but it was still fairly evident that Sal was nothing more than a scared teenager, no matter what he could become in the future.

He might have even been able to convince Draco that he truly was the great Salazar, disguised for some nefarious purpose or scheme, if not for the fact that Draco had spent the entire summer with a real Dark Lord. Sal's manipulations were good, but they weren't perfect, and Draco couldn't help but feel a little disappointed in the reality of his idol. It went against everything he had been told about the illustrious founder, yet the evidence was indisputably thrown in Draco's face every day: Salazar Slytherin truly had been a slave.

"And thus you see the problem. How do you think the Dark Lord will react when he learns the truth? I'm assuming that you have not told him yet?" Snape asked shrewdly and Draco shook his head. Of course he hadn't, he wasn't suicidal. "Do you imagine that the Dark Lord will rejoice at the news?" Draco winced and shook his head again, he was beginning to understand. He should have known better. He'd been carried away with the glee of his initial discovery, and he hadn't thought through his actions properly. His father would be ashamed of him, and his mother, too. "The Dark Lord may even question the authenticity of the information." Snape pressed on relentlessly. Draco felt very cold and his face went as white as a sheet.

"But…but it's obvious. Isn't it? You agreed with me!" He blurted out indignantly. Snape looked at him levelly.

"Yes Draco, it is obvious – to anyone who wishes to look. But the Dark Lord may not be so inclined. He is very…proud…of his relation to our illustrious Founder. He might not wish to see the stark reality behind the legend." Snape sighed and Draco forced his hands in his lap to avoid running them through his hair in irritation. It was a terrible habit for which his mother always scolded him. Besides, it had taken half an hour this morning for him to charm his hair into place, he was not messing that up in deference to his own weakness.

"What can I do?" Draco felt very young all of a sudden, like he had when he'd been sent deep into the Forbidden Forest as a first year, with only a wandless Groundskeeper and a bunch of Gryffindors to protect him from the monsters in the dark.

"You will do nothing. If the Dark Lord questions you any further, inform him that you have been forbidden any contact with the Founders, which is true enough." Snape looked at him sternly and Draco felt his heart plummet. "Draco: I forbid you to have any further contact with Sal. You will not make this any worse with any further interference. You will leave the resolution of this matter to me." Snape held his gaze until Draco nodded.

"Fine." Draco ground out bitterly and stormed out of the office angrily, slamming the door behind him. He was sick and tired of being treated like an idiot child. He scowled at a group of passing first year Hufflepuffs and was vaguely pleased when they squeaked in terror. He couldn't sit quietly and wait for Snape to clean up his messes; he needed to figure this out for himself. He kicked at the stone wall of the dungeon corridor in frustration and nearly broke his big toe. Swearing luridly and trying his best to be dignified as he hopped about in pain, Draco cursed the whole bunch of Founders for even coming to Hogwarts in the first place. Why couldn't Sal just be like he was supposed to be? Why couldn't he just be the Salazar Slytherin that the Dark Lord was expecting? The powerful dark wizard that he was meant to be? That would solve all of Draco's problems.

Draco froze and stood still, aware that he was receiving some very odd looks from a group of passing Ravenclaws. But he didn't care, he'd just thought of something completely incredible. If Draco needed Sal to be Salazar Slytherin, why couldn't he just make him so? Why couldn't he turn the slave boy into the greatest dark wizard ever – until the Dark Lord, that was? It was a ludicrous idea, really, but weren't they all, these days? He had been tasked with killing the wizard who took down Grindelwald in a straight duel; compared to that, a bit of heavy weight character manipulation would probably be light work. Also, it was an honour really, wasn't it? To be the one who showed Salazar Slytherin his true potential? To be the one who showed him what power really meant? The Dark Lord would never need to know. It was highly probable that the whole time-travel debacle would be resolved before Christmas.

With a couple of Draco's lessons behind him, Sal would be well on his way to becoming the man that history remembered, and Draco would be able to smile and honestly give the Dark Lord positive news, should he ever be asked to describe what Slytherin had been like. But even if, by some terrible twist of fate, the Founders were still traipsing the grounds of Hogwarts by the end of the school year, then Draco would have had a good six months to teach Salazar everything he needed to know. Sal would be unrecognisable and the Dark Lord would be content.

Draco smiled to himself, raising his chin proudly, as he strolled up to the seventh floor to make another attempt to tame the broken Vanishing Cabinet. Draco always worked best when he had a plan behind him, and this was a good one.

* * *

 

Sal sighed and ducked further behind the large shelves of the library. He was standing in the vague area that Hermione had pointed him to, looking vainly for some sign that would confirm that he was, actually, in the 'Old English' section, as he was meant to be. The irony of being illiterate in a library of this size was not lost on him, and he had to force down the sick shot of bitterness that rose up at the back of his throat. It was so easy for the students of the school. They had, according to Hermione, learnt how to read years ago, so they found the action of prying sense from a few squiggles on parchment to be as simple as breathing. For them, it was as intuitive as the spells that tripped from their wands, like raindrops falling from the stormy heavens. Sal hated it, and them, and himself for being such a jealous child. He knew better than to complain about things that were beyond his control. That way led only to disappointment, or madness (depending on how melodramatic he was feeling at the time).

He cursed quietly and wondered, for what must have been the hundredth time, why he was even doing this. He frowned and reminded himself sternly (again) that Hermione had told him that this was important. He peered at the carefully ordered spines of the books on the shelf, tracing the rough bindings with his finger. He was looking for something that 'jumped out at him', although what Hermione had meant by that was anyone's guess. Apparently he'd 'know when he found it'. Wasn't that just the most useless load of bullshit he'd ever heard? He sighed again and stared at a particularly thick, leather bound manuscript. It was a particular kind of torture to have so much knowledge in such easy reach, but for it to be locked away in some indecipherable code, particularly one that he was having doubts he'd ever be able to decipher.

Colin had been trying his hardest to teach him, over the past few weeks. They'd moved beyond the basic letters after a couple of lessons, and Sal had been pretty confident that he'd known the alphabet back to front and upside down, along with the different individual sounds that each letter made. That was until they'd tried to move onto simple words. Sal had drawn a complete blank there. Nothing that Colin could suggest had been able to make it any easier for him, either. Sal had tried every technique presented to him until he was blue in the face and his brain was half scrambled from the effort, but nothing had worked. He had been able to identify the letters, and had been able to sound them out, as Colin had suggested, but no matter how hard he had tried, he hadn't been able to make the letters into identifiable words. They were just complete gibberish. Finally, after three long, painful hours of Sal trying and failing to eke the word 'dog' out of the intractable letters, Colin had given up and called in the cavalry. By which he had meant Harry, Hermione, and Ginny.

"What's the problem?" Hermione had asked, the minute she had walked into the magically appearing room. Colin had immediately launched into a very long-winded explanation that ended with Sal protesting that the letter sounds just didn't fit together to make any words that he could recognise.

"Oh dear," Hermione had replied very quietly, after a long moment. "I think I know what the problem is." She'd then written out the word 'folde' and asked Sal to sound it out. Sal had done so and had been thrilled to find that it actually made sense. He'd read the word for "earth", as clear as day.

"That's incredible." Sal had beamed at the others, until he'd seen the frown on Hermione's face.

"We have a problem," she had told him, apologetically. "I didn't even think about it. You see, the problem is we've been teaching you to read the wrong language." Sal had blinked at her stupidly, as he had waited for her to continue her explanation. "You see the English language has changed over time, the version that you speak is much more Germanic, and it's the language the Anglo Saxons brought over from Northern Europe when they invaded. We call it Old English. The language we speak is Modern English, and it's completely different, it's had another thousand years to change and develop, not to mention the influence of the Norman invasion…which I should really not have mentioned at all. Oh Merlin, I hope I've not just destroyed the timeline." Hermione hadn't stopped from breath for almost thirty seconds, and Sal had almost been impressed, despite the fact that she was talking absolute nonsense.

"But Hermione, he's been speaking English with us for weeks," Harry had informed her gently, as if afraid he was about to get his head bitten off. Hermione had looked at Sal as if she could make him understand through sheer will alone, but she'd shaken herself as Harry spoke.

"What? Of course he hasn't!" Hermione had looked so offended, Sal had half expected her to challenge Harry to an honour duel from sheer academic indignation alone. Sal had been very glad that he'd not spoken up, as he'd been thinking the same thing as Harry. Hermione had frowned at them all sternly. "Have none of you even picked up a copy of Hogwarts: A History?" Sal had looked at her dryly and she had the decency to look embarrassed before she continued. "Hogwarts is a magical school…"

"No shit," Ginny had interjected, but shut up quickly at the look on Hermione's face.

"I mean that the building is, in itself, magical. The staircases move, the classrooms move around between floors, and the mirrors talk to you and give you fashion advice. Things like that. Which means that the building itself has its own magic. It's the same for any old magical structure. The floo network around Diagon Alley has been famously unreliable for decades, and the buildings there aren't even that old – apart from Ollivanders, of course – Hogwarts is ancient in comparison."

"Hermione, you've lost me," Harry had replied honestly, and Hermione had rolled her eyes in exasperation.

"Look, old magical buildings have their own magic. Hogwarts does too, but it doesn't really do all that much. It just kind of lingers in the air. But one of the things it does do is learn. Over time, it picks up elements of the personalities and cultures of the teachers and students who've lived there. There's a fascinating article on the influence of atmospheric magic on local wildlife, which would go a long way to explaining the Burrow's gnome infestation, but your mum refuses to let me lend it to her, Ginny.Anyway, that's not the point. The point is language. Over time the school has heard all the different languages spoken by students, and it has absorbed them – to the point that they've become part of the school itself. The magic sort of alters everyone's perceptions so that we can all understand one another. So when we speak modern English to you, the school's inherent magic makes it sound like Old English to you, and vice versa. How do you think we communicate with portraits and ghosts that have been around for centuries?"

"But what about during the Tournament, Hermione? Are you telling me all those English lessons were just an excuse for Krum to spend time with you?" Harry had asked with a knowing grin.

"Don't be ridiculous, Harry, it only applies to languages that have been spoken every day by hundreds of students for hundreds of years. Bulgarian is not one of them." She had sighed and turned to look at Sal, apologetically. "This is where we have a problem. The school's magic only applies to the spoken word. There's a whole lot of law around the importance of the spoken word in magic, but suffice to say, the school doesn't magically grant the ability to understand the entire library at a glance. If it did, you'd already be able to read, Sal. As it is, we've been trying to teach you to recognise words in the wrong language. We just didn't notice because none of you knew you were speaking a different language."

Hermione had finally come up for breath, and Sal had asked her what they could do to fix the problem. He had come so far already, he was not about to stop because of some pesky language barrier. She'd told him to try and find a book in his own language that he could work from; she'd said that he'd know the right one when he found it. It was for this reason and this reason alone, that he found himself combing through the darkened shelves of a dusky corner of the library, searching the shelves in the vain hope that one of these dusty tomes might spark some inspiration and jump off the shelf at him. Sal sighed deeply again, and tried to convince himself that Hermione knew what she was doing. He'd wolfed down his dinner at breakneck speed to come and search through the library, but it was taking a lot longer than he'd thought. He was going to be late getting back to Filch, if he wasn't careful. But there were just so many books! He'd never thought that so many could exist in one place!

Just when he was about to give up hope and call it a night, a thin volume caught his attention; he spotted it out of the corner of his eye. He didn't know what it was about that one book that enthralled him so much, but something perhaps in the shape of the spine, or the colour of the binding, had intrigued him. He pulled it from the shelf and blew off the dust, he flicked through it and was disappointed to realise that the letters continued to make as little sense as they had been for the past two weeks. He shook his head, irritated at himself, and went to put it back on the shelf. He turned round and, to his complete horror, found himself face to face with Lady Hufflepuff. There was a moment of stillness where Sal found himself too frozen to speak, before she broke the awful silence.

"Are you trying to steal that?" she asked in a terse whisper, pointing to the book in his hands.

"W-what? I…I mean, n-no, m'lady," he replied quickly, his hands starting to shake. He knew he should probably be insulted at her insinuation, but he was too terrified at having been caught to care.

"So you're reading it then?" she asked him with an arched eyebrow and a huffed laugh. The silence was eloquent. Sal felt his heart fly to his throat. "You can read?"

Sal flinched and shook his head quickly. "Not yet, m'lady," he told her honestly. Better to confess to illicit reading lessons, than to the attempted theft of a book from their hosts. The moment the words passed his lips, he realised that he could have pretended that he was running an errand for a student, or for one of the staff. No-one would have questioned him for doing his work, although they might have wondered who had left such a valuable object in the hands of a mere slave. Unfortunately, he couldn't take back what he'd already said. As always, hindsight was a wonderful thing.

"This isn't something that Lord Gryffindor has approved, is it?" Lady Hufflepuff asked slowly. Sal shook his head miserably, eyes fixed on the floor. He was dead. Fucking dead. She was going to report this to his master and then he was going to die. Probably painfully. His master could be creative when the mood struck him

No-one wanted an educated slave, not unless they chose for them to be educated, that was. Sal's master had expressly forbidden Sal from learning anything not directly related to religion or the daily chores of the household, without his master's explicit permission. It was testament to the lesson in irony that was his life that he hadn't even had chance to learn anything properly yet, considering Hermione had only just discovered the whole language barrier issue. He'd been pleasantly surprised to find out that it wasn't entirely his own fault; he'd thought for certain that he was just too stupid to learn. People had been telling him that his whole life, after all. He'd always ignored them, convinced that, even if he wasn't educated, he wasn't entirely stupid and that if someone would just give him a chance, he would be able to prove them all wrong. When he'd failed at even the most basic words, he thought, with grim certainty, that he was the ignorant moron that they always said he was. Too stupid to learn, too stupid to be taught, too stupid to be bothered with. He'd learnt enough of his lessons at the end of a fist, or a whip, that he'd begun to wonder whether he was just a dumb animal, there to be put to work for his betters. To find out that it wasn't just him, that there was a whole language issue at play, had been indescribably relieving. Sal had thought that he'd have another chance. Clearly, Providence was not working in his favour. He should have known better than to get his hopes up.

"I'm s-sorry, m'lady," Sal said quietly. He was still holding onto the book, and his hands were shaking slightly, clenching and unclenching against the binding.

"I assume that you didn't get this idea into your head all on your own. Who has been teaching you?" she asked him.

"Some of the s-students, m'lady. I don't know their names," well there was as blatant a lie as he'd ever told. Sal wondered if she'd believe it, or call him out on it.

"Hmm?" she looked at him closely. Sal kept his eyes fixed to the floor, forcing himself not to look up and discover what that ambiguous noise meant. Her hand reached out in front of his nose, and it took an embarrassingly long minute for Sal to realise what she was asking him for. He handed the book over with shaking hands and watched as she examined it critically; she was presumably looking for whatever damage he had done with his filthy, illiterate hands.

"I just wanted to learn m'lady," Sal said miserably, as she put the book back on the shelf with a reverence usually reserved for holy relics.

"Well, that I can understand," she said quietly. She looked Sal up and down, and he tried his hardest to convey to her just how earnestly he meant what he'd said. She hummed slightly and then laughed quietly. "You know, I think I just might believe you." She wrung her hands, looking conflicted, and then peered at Sal closely. "What if I were to pretend that I'd never seen you?"

Sal's head shot up and he was momentarily too shocked to speak. She raised an eyebrow at him and he stuttered his thanks, hardly daring to believe what was happening.

"You wouldn't be doing anything Lord Gryffindor wouldn't approve of?" she asked him sternly.

"N-no, m'lady," Sal shook his head and tried his hardest, despite the tremendous lie he'd just told, to look innocent and earnest. It was an expression that he'd never quite managed to perfect. Lady Hufflepuff looked at him shrewdly, but seemed content to take him at his word. Sal tried his hardest not to judge her for that; it wasn't her fault that he was a lying, delinquent little shit.

"Alright," Lady Hufflepuff told him, "I won't tell anyone. But you'll have to be careful." She smiled tightly, and Sal felt his shoulders slump in relief. He took a deep breath, gratified that Lady Hufflepuff wasn't going to run off and inform his master of his latest indiscretion, or at least that she didn't seem about to do so anytime soon. He wasn't able to revel in the feeling for long though, as, moments later, from behind the next rack of shelves, the voice of Lady Ravenclaw cut through the air in a loud whisper.

"Helga, I've just found the most amazing book, it's full of riddles." Lady Ravenclaw sounded very excited. "Right, see if you can solve this one: 'I am a…'" she rounded the corner, large book held in one hand, wand twirling casually in the other, a bright grin on her face. "Oh…" she stopped as she saw who Lady Hufflepuff was talking to, eyes flicking from her companion to Sal, and then back again. Sal looked desperately at Lady Hufflepuff, but she didn't seem nearly as panicked as he felt. Perhaps she was better at concealing things than he was. "Well, well Helga, deserting me for a slave boy, are you? How scandalous!" Lady Ravenclaw's eyes lit up with merriment, as she teased the other woman. "What will poor Godric do, his heart will be rent in two, his hopes shattered, his dreams cast adrift on the…" She was cut off abruptly, as Lady Hufflepuff turned around and slapped a hand over her mouth.

"You are in the library," she reminded Lady Ravenclaw tersely. "We are supposed to be quiet here." The other woman had the decency to look slightly abashed, and she wilted slightly under her companion's stern gaze. "Are you quite finished?" Lady Hufflepuff asked, although she sounded as though she were holding back laughter. Lady Ravenclaw nodded quickly, and Lady Hufflepuff moved her hand away.

"On the tattered remains of his spurned love," Lady Ravenclaw finished with glee, although she kept her voice low. Her companion looked at her fondly and shook her head in exasperation. Sal stared at the two women in complete bemusement. Was that how ladies normally behaved in each other's company? He honestly hadn't been around enough of them to say either way, but Hufflepuff seemed remarkably familiar with her mistress, for a mere companion. But then again, that might just be how companions were expected to behave. Sal had no idea, but what he did know was that Lady Ravenclaw had just insinuated that he was meeting Lady Hufflepuff for an illicit liaison, the woman who was (apparently) the object of the affections of his master's son. Sal felt the blood run from his face. This was very not good. That kind of rumour, however ludicrous, would be bad. Sal swallowed and took a deep breath. It would be very bad indeed.

"I told you not to bring that up again, Rowena," Lady Hufflepuff said with a groan. "The poor boy is completely lovesick."

"Oh, but my dear, you wound him so terribly! What was it he wrote, 'Fair Helga's heart, my hope to win. In battle bold, thus bravely I stand?' Or was it 'arise'? I forget," Lady Ravenclaw laughed outright as Lady Hufflepuff hid her face in her hands.

Sal got the strong feeling that these two women were being indecorously unguarded with their conversation. In all the times that he had seen them back in Lord Gryffindor's Hall – them seated elegantly by the fire pit, him pouring mead in the corner and jealously eyeing the scraps that were thrown to the dogs – he had never seen them behave so casually. But then again, why shouldn't they talk to each other as friends? He was the only witness, and he was only a slave. It didn't matter what they said in front of him, because he didn't matter.

"Leave poor Godric alone, he means well," Lady Hufflepuff said sternly, raising her face from her hands. Her cheeks were flushed pink with embarrassment.

"Yes, but his verse is terrible, and that is inexcusable," Lady Ravenclaw said primly, and then turned to face Sal. "Now, tell me, what were you doing back here with this slave, Helga?"

Sal had been trying his hardest to fade into the bookcase behind him, in the (apparently) vain hope that he would be forgotten about and allowed to go on his way. But of course, he should have known better than to hope.

"Having a conversation, Rowena dear," Lady Hufflepuff replied blithely, "and quite a scintillating one at that. He's just full of surprises."

"Oh?" Lady Ravenclaw asked, looking Sal over with more interest. He felt the back of his neck prickle, and he kept his eyes forced to the floor. "Now that is interesting. What have you been keeping from us all?" Her voice sounded slightly mocking and Sal had to force himself not to clench his fists in anger. If there was one thing he hated, it was being patronised. He could tolerate the taunts, the curses, the cruel disdain that he was met with as soon as people realised his status. But what he couldn't handle, what made fire burn in his stomach and his eyes smart in indignation, was being treated like an idiot, or a child. He hated being seen as some mere joke, as a curiosity to be poked and prodded by supercilious nobles with too much time on their hands and not enough sources of entertainment. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"I do believe I've upset him," Lady Ravenclaw said with a slight laugh. "Helga, I'm sorry, I think I've made your new friend all cross." She sounded almost awestruck, and Sal bit the inside of his cheek as his temper flashed again.

"Rowena, stop it," Lady Hufflepuff said sternly. "He wasn't doing anything wrong. Leave him alone."

"I'm just teasing him," Lady Ravenclaw's voice dropped its edge, suddenly sounding a lot more vulnerable. Sal glanced up, and he could see the pleading look in her eyes. She looked a lot younger than she had a moment ago, and Sal was struck with the sudden realisation that she was only a few years older than he was. He tried not to stare or to let any confusion and irritation show on his face. He was stressed beyond all measure. Within the past few minutes, he'd had his reading lessons discovered, been accused of illicit liaisons with a noble women, been mocked by another, and learnt a great deal more about the heart of his master's son than was entirely judicious. He was also almost certain that he was running late to meet Filch.

Of course, all of this meant that he was going to remain illiterate for the rest of his life; the duration of which would probably be very short, because if his master didn't have him hanged for having an unchaperoned and highly suspicious meeting with one of his wards, Filch would probably beat him to death for being late so soon after being flogged for the same transgression. So what right did Lady Ravenclaw have to look so wounded? He was a dead man; what was her excuse?

"You're being cruel," Lady Hufflepuff confirmed steadily, and Lady Ravenclaw winced. "It's beneath you." There was a long moment before Lady Hufflepuff let out a deep sigh. "But I'll forgive you, this once."

"Oh thank goodness," Lady Ravenclaw said and swept her companion into a close hug, "I am sorry, my love." Lady Hufflepuff whispered something into her ear, and Sal strained to listen in, but he couldn't hear what it was that she said. Sal eyed them warily, certain that he was intruding on a private moment, but unsure if he was meant to leave. He would have been quite happy to just put the whole conversation behind him, but he hadn't been dismissed yet. Finally, Lady Ravenclaw broke off the hug and turned to face him. "I'm sorry," she said to him, with what sounded like genuine remorse, "that was unkind of me. I shouldn't have teased you like that."

Sal nodded tentatively. He had no idea what to do with an apology, and from a noble at that, even if it was, most likely, not particularly sincere. He risked raising his chin, to take a look about the room, trying to find something to focus on that would distract him from the awful blush rising in his cheeks. The room was silent around them, none of the other students seemed to come anywhere near these shelves, preferring to cluster around the tables in the better-lit centre of the library. That was probably for the best; although their conversation had been held in whispers, Sal was certain that any nearby students would have heard what he, Lady Ravenclaw, and Lady Hufflepuff had been saying. He let out a quick sigh of relief and looked over at the women.

"So you're trying to learn how to read," Lady Ravenclaw said with a smile. Sal felt his blood turn to ice, and he couldn't help the slight gasp he let out. Lady Hufflepuff had betrayed him, he shouldn't have been surprised. He really shouldn't. "Oh don't look so wounded," Lady Ravenclaw continued airily, and he gritted his teeth and forced his head down. "Helga and I don't keep secrets from each other." She smiled fondly at Lady Hufflepuff. "She's said that she promised not to tell anyone, so I won't either. But I'd advise you to keep your silence about it." She looked at Sal sternly and raised a haughty eyebrow. "I highly doubt that your master would be pleased to find out." Sal nodded quickly, looking at Lady Ravenclaw out of the corner of his eye. He didn't think that she had just threatened him, necessarily; it had sounded more like a warning. But he wasn't taking any chances; he decided to watch her closely and try his hardest to endear himself to Lady Hufflepuff – she seemed to have some influence over Lady Ravenclaw's behaviour.

"Th-thank you, m'lady," he said quietly, staring at his bare feet.

"Come on, Rowena," Lady Hufflepuff said quietly, "let's leave him to it."

"Fine. This library is useless anyway," Lady Ravenclaw said acidly. She paused and smiled self-deprecatingly. "Perhaps the illiterate boy will make more sense of these dratted books than we could." Sal looked up curiously. He wasn't sure if he understood her properly, but if she was having difficulty too…?

"My lady?" he asked cautiously. She started slightly – apparently she had not expected him to speak.

"Yes?"

"Are the b-books in a strange language?" He cursed inwardly as he stuttered again; he hated that they made him so anxious. Reading was going to be a good thing for him, and he was pretty sure that they'd just ruined it for him. He knew he'd be nervous as fuck the next time he tried to practise with Colin, terrified that his master would be waiting to catch him in such a disobedient act. Sal sighed internally. He knew that it was highly inadvisable to engage the ladies in any further conversation, that he should keep his mouth shut and run back to Filch as fast as he could, praying that it wasn't as late as he feared it was, but he understood the frustration of things just not making sense and he didn't want to inflict that on anyone. Well, maybe Dunstan; he was a prick.

"What?" Lady Ravenclaw asked sharply. "How could you…Why do you ask that?" She looked at Sal steadily, assessing him, as if she were seeing him properly for the first time. Sal forced himself not to flinch back under the weight of her gaze.

"I th-think I kn-know why that is," he told her quickly, and her eyebrows shot up.

It didn't take long to explain Hermione's theory about the language filter in the school's magic, despite the irritating stutter that broke up his hurried whispers and slowed him down. When he was done, Lady Ravenclaw looked completely thrilled; Lady Hufflepuff was looking at him appraisingly.

"That's fascinating," Lady Ravenclaw gasped, far too loudly for the library, and Lady Hufflepuff hissed at her to be quiet. "How did you discover this?" Sal flinched and searched his mind for an excuse that wouldn't incriminate Hermione and her friends; he had no idea what trouble they'd be in if it was widely known that they'd been helping him to rebel against his master. Thankfully, he was spared, as Lady Ravenclaw turned to Lady Hufflepuff, and the two women began a rapid exchange of thoughts and theories that left him awestruck. He knew that these women had to be clever to have been permitted to travel to Lord Gryffindor's court to study – instead of having been married off years ago, as was the custom – but this was beyond his expectations. They threw around terms he couldn't even begin to guess the meaning of with warm familiarity, and they discussed figures and equations with the confidence of a tax collector. Sal watched in delighted incomprehension, as he futilely tried to follow the thread of their discussion.

Finally Lady Ravenclaw turned to him. "This is simply fascinating. What other theories do you have?" Sal blinked slowly for a moment, uncertain that he'd heard her correctly. She hadn't just asked for his thoughts about something, had she?

"I think we've kept him long enough, love," Lady Hufflepuff cut in. "If you get stuck on an idea, you'll be here all night. Don't ask him any more questions." Sal blinked again. Apparently she had. "Go on," Lady Hufflepuff told him with a small smile, "I'm sure you're long since expected somewhere else."

Sal bowed and went to take his leave, but paused as Lady Ravenclaw cleared her throat noisily. He stilled and she sighed in frustration and sternly pointed a long, graceful finger at him.

"Come back tomorrow, at the same time. I want to talk more with you about this." He was so shocked that he felt his mouth drop open. He had been asked back? That was just…That was ridiculous, surely? Lady Hufflepuff smiled benignly at him, and he quickly composed himself and rushed to agree. For some strange, ridiculously improbable reason, Lady Ravenclaw wanted to speak to him: about magic. That was just…That was fucking incredible. He wasn't sure he liked the woman, but he damn well respected her intelligence. It was legendary within Lord Gryffindor's hall.

He left the library in a daze, still completely in awe at the conversation he'd just had. The ladies Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw were not what he had expected when he'd seen them across Lord Gryffindor's hall. They had seemed so elegant and untouchable then, not at all like the dynamic, teasing young women he'd left behind in the library. There was an energy to them he hadn't anticipated, a sharpness of perception that both terrified and exhilarated him. He knew that he was better off forgetting the whole interaction and going back to meekly bowing and scraping to them from a polite distance, but he wasn't sure that he wanted to. It was like standing too close to the fire; he knew that he would probably get burnt, but the flames were too enticing to leave alone.

He was halfway down the corridor before he realised that he hadn't even had chance to properly look at the book that he'd picked out, before Lady Hufflepuff had found him. He cursed and came to a slow stop. He contemplated going back for it, before sternly reminding himself of the futility of such an action. Just because he liked the pretty pages did not mean that it was worth risking a whipping to go and stare at them dumbly for another half an hour. He wasn't stupid. He knew he wouldn't miraculously gain the ability to read them through sheer willpower alone. Besides, he had the terrible feeling that he was already inexcusably late.

He grumbled to himself and slumped off to Filch's office at a brisk walk. There was no way he was running for that bastard of a man, but he was prudent enough to realise that a bit of haste wouldn't go amiss. He kept his eyes open in case Malfoy decided to waylay him in the corridors, again. Sal's attempts to manipulate the boy had stalled a bit over the past week, and he was willing to admit that he had perhaps underestimated Malfoy's sagacity, or perhaps overestimated his own ability to convincingly play a figure of legend. Either way, Draco still would not leave him alone. In fact, he had spent the entire morning looking at Sal contentedly, like a cat surveying a trapped mouse. Sal was perturbed, and not exactly in a hurry to find out what Draco had planned. Besides, he was running late. He picked up his pace and arrived at the office door slightly out of breath; he took a moment to collect himself, smoothing down his errant hair and straightening his threadbare clothing, in an effort to look more composed. He pushed open the door and his stomach drop at what was on the other side.

Standing in the middle of the office was a triumphant looking Dunstan. He smirked maliciously at Sal and turned towards the corner, where Filch was stood looking decidedly awkward and vaguely green. Dunstan laughed then and said something to the caretaker, but Sal couldn't hear what it was. It sounded like he was underwater. Sal felt his hands start to tremble. The room around him was getting smaller and smaller, and he was struggling to draw in a breath. His eyes found the chains on the wall, and his knees shook unsteadily beneath him. Distantly Sal could hear the warbled sound of Filch's reply, but it was faint behind the noise of his own blood pounding in his ears. He felt the cool clasp of metal around his wrists, and sharp flashes of pain burst across his back. He gasped, and his vision flashed momentarily white.

He swayed on his feet. A strong hand grabbed his shoulder, as his legs fell out from underneath him. He flinched violently, and his vision started to dim at the edges. His breath was coming in frantic gasps, and he couldn't seem to slow it down. Something dry and crackly was placed over his mouth, as he continued to struggle for air. Slowly but surely, his breathing started to slow, and his vision started to clear a little. He was slumped in the doorway of Filch's office, panting heavily into a brown bag that seemed to be made of very thin parchment. It crinkled in on itself as he inhaled and then billowed out, with a loud crackle, as he exhaled; steadily it began to expand and contract more slowly, and his breathing slowed to steady wheezes. The bag was carefully removed, and a glass vial was placed in front of his lips.

"Drink this," stated a quiet voice, from somewhere off to his right. Sal didn't even question the command, and he gulped down the liquid immediately. Following orders was safe. He could do that. He was supposed to do that. Within a few seconds, a sense of deep calm washed over him, and he felt himself relax absolutely. He felt very light, and he found himself taking deep, slow breaths. He looked around the room idly; everything seemed very detached, which was nice. The light was very strange, almost dimmed, and the sounds of the room seemed very far away. Dunstan was looking at him with revulsion, which was not very nice, but Sal wasn't worried. Something about that seemed wrong to him, and a thought niggled at the back of his mind, but he swatted it away. He didn't want to be worried. He liked the calm.

"That was a calming draught," the voice said again. "You were having a panic attack." Sal turned around slightly to see that Professor Snape was crouched next to him, a hand on his shoulder. Sal looked at the hand and blinked slowly. He hadn't realised that he was on the floor.

"That's nice," Sal said mildly. "Why am I on the floor?"

"You fell," Professor Snape told him calmly. Oh. Sal hadn't realised, he'd been panicking. "I know," Professor Snape told him quietly, and Sal blinked slowly – had he said that last part out loud? "Yes, you did. You will find yourself lacking a filter for at least the next ten minutes or so, it is a side-effect of the draught. So I advise you to remain quiet." Ah, that explained things, and it seemed like a very reasonable suggestion. Sal could remain silent. He was very good at that, he'd had lots of practise. "I'm sure you have," Snape smirked at him, "perhaps you should demonstrate your skill now." Snape looked as if he was laughing at him, which Sal didn't think was very nice. "Oh for Merlin's sake," the Professor sighed, and pulled out his wand. "Silencio. There, maybe that will work."

"What have you done to him?" Dunstan asked quietly. Sal thought that was quite nice. Dunstan never cared about him, he was usually very mean. Well, a right bastard to be entirely honest. It was nice of him to show some interest in Sal's wellbeing, for once.

"I've given him a calming draught. He was hyperventilating, for some reason he was scared half to death." Snape had stood up and was walking towards Dunstan menacingly. Sal didn't think that was very fair. He hadn't been scared half to death; he had just been struggling to breathe for a minute. It would have passed, one way or the other, and if he'd passed out before Dunstan whipped him, well that would have been a blessing, in Sal's book.

"You shouldn't be interfering, the boy was late. Again. He knows better." Dunstan's voice was harsh and uncompromising, and Sal had to fight back a shiver, despite the calming effects of the potion. "He was getting what was coming to him."

"I'm afraid that's my fault," Professor Snape said smoothly, and Sal looked up, blinking in surprise. He hadn't known it was the Professor's fault that he was late; it would be very interesting to find out what he'd done. "The boy was with me in the dungeons. I needed someone to prepare ingredients, and he happened to be nearby when I went looking for a student to assist me." The Professor was a very good liar, Sal thought to himself, as he watched Filch tremble with indignation in the corner.

"The Headmaster entrusted him to me!" The caretaker bristled, and walked over to Sal, pulling him to his feet. Sal swayed and felt very woozy. Professor Snape looked very angry, and Sal shrugged Filch's grip from his arm. He didn't like to be grabbed, especially not by some malodorous prick of a caretaker with an overgrown sense of superiority. His mouth stung, and he tasted blood, as the back of Filch's hand snapped across the side of his face. He stumbled backwards, as pain rushed through the protective barrier of calm in his mind. He bowed his head submissively, and the easy tranquillity swelled back to him. This was good. This was safe. He could do this all day, and no one would get angry at him for it. Sal looked down at his hands; they weren't shaking. They were very pale, and thin; he had very thin fingers.

"Be that as it may," Professor Snape continued, "I find myself in pressing need of his assistance. Professor Dumbledore requires a disproportionate number of quite complex potions this year, more than he has done before." He fixed Filch with a meaningful look and paused, waiting.

Sal wasn't sure what was going on, or why the Professor was lying through his teeth on Sal's behalf, but he was loath to look a gift horse in the mouth. He kept his head low and poked with his tongue at the cut his teeth had opened in his cheek when Filch slapped him. It stung and tasted strongly of iron.

"You want the boy?" Dunstan asked slowly, as if completed bemused as to why anyone would want Sal. Sal privately agreed and tried to say so out loud, but his voice was stolen by Snape's silencing spell.

"I do," Professor Snape nodded calmly. "For at least the next couple of weeks." Dunstan looked at Filch and then back at the Professor.

"But I need him around here," Filch argued, angrily, grabbing at Sal's elbow. "The amount of work I have to do with all the little brats running around here!"

"Is surely your job, is it not?" Snape asked coolly. "I am sure the Headmaster will be most concerned to hear that you are struggling to manage, and can only complete your duties with Lord Gryffindor's slave to help you. Perhaps it is simply too much to ask of one man, without the aid of a wand, of course." Filch dropped Sal's elbow as if it were a hot coal.

"You-" he seethed at Snape, who raised a single, unyielding eyebrow. "Fine."

"Indeed." The Professor stepped back and looked at Dunstan. "Are we then agreed? I will take the boy for the duration of my work." Dunstan let out a deep breath and eyed Snape shrewdly.

"You can have him, if you're certain you can handle him. He's an unholy terror, sir. He'd steal from his own grandmother, if he knew who she was." Sal looked up at this, mildly offended. He didn't think he was all that bad, and he most certainly wouldn't steal from the elderly – or anyone, for that matter. Not anymore – he'd be hanged. He wasn't stupid.

"I assure you that won't be an issue." Up until that moment, the Professor had seemed quite kind, or at least the closest to kind that Sal had known from an adult in a great number of years. Snape had helped him to calm down when he started to panic, and he hadn't hit him for being troublesome and inconvenient. But, as the Professor spoke those words, Sal felt a thrill of terror, despite the potion he'd taken. That was a scary voice; he didn't want to get on the wrong side of it.

"If you're sure…" Dunstan sounded decidedly uncertain. "The little bastard's yours. Just don't let him anywhere near anything too dangerous. Or let him get hold of your wand. He was apprenticed under a right evil bastard of a dark wizard when we found him. Little bastard knows magic that would make your skin crawl."

Professor Snape turned to Sal at that, pinning him with an unreadable look. "Is that so?" he asked ponderously. Sal blushed and felt a faint sense of unease clawing at the back of his mind. He tried to sink back into the blissful calm of the potion, but it seemed much harder to reach than before. It seemed to be wearing off.

"Yes, sir. Lord Gryffindor was all set to run him through alongside his demon of a master; he would have been well within his rights to do so. But then he felt the power of the Spirit moving him to show mercy." Sal thought that Dunstan sounded like he was going to wet himself with his adulation of Lord Gryffindor. "So he spared the boy and took him into his household, the better to show him the true path to righteousness."

"I see." Professor Snape didn't take his eyes from Sal as Dunstan spoke, and Sal felt his shoulders hunching under the weight of that gaze. He knew it was only a matter of time before his sordid past was bandied around the halls of the castle, a stern warning to all the little witches and wizards not to get caught up in the evil ways of the dark. He was a cautionary tale in the flesh, and he hated it. He hated it almost as much as he hated his master for not just killing him that day, when he'd had the chance. It was a curious definition of mercy that had him bound in slavery, even as an alternative to the eternal suffering Lord Gryffindor was convinced that Sal had waiting for him; sometimes, when he was feeling particularly miserable and blasphemous, Sal thought that he might have preferred damnation. There was a long pause, after Dunstan finished speaking, before anyone spoke. Finally Snape spoke up.

"Well I shall take extra care then," Snape's voice was studiously calm, but there was warmth behind his words. If Sal didn't know better, he would have thought that Professor Snape was trying not to laugh.

"Alright then. If you're sure." Dunstan rubbed his hands together briskly. "Just pass him back to Mr Filch here, when you're done. No need for me to get involved with loans amongst friends." He seemed pleased that the transaction was over with. "But," he turned to face Sal with a malicious grin on his face, "you're owed a flogging for tonight. I don't care if you were helping the Professor here, you know the rules. When the Professor's done with you, you'll get what's coming to you. Understand?" Sal nodded miserably. He was foolish to have expected anything else.

"Come on then, boy." Professor Snape swept towards the door, not bothering to look behind him to see if Sal was following. Sal bobbed a hasty bow to Dunstan and Filch and hurried after the Professor.

As they moved down the corridor, away from the office, Sal felt his shoulders loosening, shedding tension that he hadn't even realised he'd been holding. God above, he hated that office. Professor Snape had a long stride, and Sal was forced to hurry to keep up with him; so many people in this godforsaken castle were so inexplicably tall. It irritated Sal to no end. He'd always been the runt of the litter; a childhood spent scavenging for scraps and eking out what pitiful fare he could from the pennies his mother had thrown at him (after she'd converted the rest into enough cheap wine to fell a giant) had not exactly left him towering. He didn't blame her for that now, of course, although he had at one point, when he was younger. When he was a small child, he'd often thought that if only his mother had been a good, sober, and pious woman then perhaps his life wouldn't have turned out so unconditionally atrocious. But he'd grown up a lot since then, and he thought he understood his mother a lot better now; she did what she had to do to survive, regardless of the cost. It must have been fucking horrendous for her. Sal was honest enough with himself to admit that, even after seeing what drink did to his mother, if he had a way of dumbing down the unrelenting deluge of crap that was his life, he'd probably take it too.

He shook himself from his thoughts, as he realised he'd fallen behind the Professor. He broke into a brisk trot and hurried to catch up. The corridors were empty at this time of night, dark and cold with the absence of students. The portraits whispered eerily on the walls, the figures contorting into grotesque shapes in the dim half-light of the Professor's lit wand. Sal shivered and forced himself to keep pace. He was still under the Professor's silencing charm; if he fell behind he'd have no way of alerting the Professor, and he didn't know where he was going. He did not want to be left alone in the darkness.

"Keep up," the Professor told him sternly, and Sal flinched; he did not need to be told twice. It didn't take long before they reached the dungeons; by which point, Sal was grateful for the swift pace. The night air was freezing, and Sal had to fight down his shivers. "This is my office," Snape told him, as they drew to an abrupt halt in front of an unassuming looking doorway. He cast a quick spell, muttering the incantation under his breath, and ushered Sal into the room.

Sal frowned and wondered at the point of all the secrecy. It was unlikely that he'd be able to replicate the spell's effects, without a wand. The best that he could manage were a few simple charms, levitations, sending up sparks, things like that, and none of them were particularly strong. He was also particularly adept at creating an impressive looking, but safely cool ritual fire, but he hadn't used that skill since he was a child, so he hardly thought it worth acknowledging. Besides, it didn't do to show that you had the skills to observe a proper ritual, not unless you were around those who still kept to the old ways, which was precious few these days. Not even his previous master had dabbled in the 'pagan' traditions. Sal only knew enough to properly observe the festivals and to cast a few basic spells and charms, which he'd had to bribe and cajole the local healer into teaching him, back when he still (ostensibly) lived with his mother; it had been deemed far too dangerous for him to know any more, if the Church had found out…Well, things probably would have turned out the same in the end, but Sal would have been forced to run a hell of a lot sooner.

"Well, are you coming in?" Sal jumped and flinched, startled out of his reverie by the harsh voice of the Professor. He bowed his head and muttered an apology that came out completely silent, as he hurried into the room. The Professor had lit the torches on the walls and seated himself behind a sturdy looking desk. It was a fine mahogany table, covered in neatly organised piles of parchment and orderly rows of quills; Sal desperately wished that it were his. A solid looking oak chair was placed in front of it, directly opposite Snape. The walls behind him were lined with tall shelves, filled with row after row of small glass jars and vials. Sal peered intently at one particular container, which was filled with a thick, glutinous liquid that churned and sloshed against the glass walls that encased it. He found himself oddly transfixed by the sight and had to tear his gaze away, to look at the Professor.

With the effects of the calming potion now almost completely worn off, Sal felt a strong sense of trepidation for the man before him. This man had lied to Filch and to Dunstan, just to get Sal alone. Why would he have done that? What could he possibly want? Sal had thought that they were odd allies, of a sort. In as much as Sal's desire to avoid Harry and Draco had aided Snape's ongoing campaign to make Harry Potter's life as difficult as possible, anyway. Snape had helped him avoid a few over-zealous children, but Sal really wasn't sure that he could trust him any further than that.

"Sit down." The Professor told him firmly and Sal slid into empty chair immediately. Snape shook out the sleeves of his robes and peered closely at Sal's face. "Are you alright?" Sal nodded his head slowly, not sure what to make of the question. "Do you need any bruise salve, for your face?" Snape indicated to where Filch had hit him earlier. Sal raised a hand and slowly felt the cheek at the corner of his mouth. It didn't feel swollen; he doubted that it would bruise. He shook his head and shrugged slightly. He'd honestly forgotten about it, until Snape had pointed it out to him. "You can speak to me, you know?" Sal's eyes shot up to meet the older man's, raising an eyebrow, as he tried to simultaneously convey his bitterness and exasperation – along with the phrase "you put a fucking silencing charm on my you bloody imbecile" – through the sheer power of expression alone. Apparently it worked, as Snape quickly waved his wand and coughed slightly, shifting in his seat. "My apologies, I assumed it would have worn off by now."

Sal blinked in surprise. That was two apologies in one day; he should probably burn a good deal of sage to cleanse himself, at the first opportunity. He never got that lucky; it was undoubtedly an omen of ill things to come. Sal forced back the cynical voice at the back of his mind and made sure to properly thank the Professor for his kind consideration. He made sure to emphasise just how grateful he was at being compelled into silence for the better part of an hour, he used his most deferential language and made sure to bow suitable low in thanks.

"Would you have preferred that I left you to babble out your every thought under the influence of the calming draught?" Snape asked him lightly, as soon as Sal had finished his last exaltation. "Would you have remained dutifully silent and not contradicted my story, had I left you to your own devices?" Sal froze and the obsequious smile that he'd fixed to his face slipped away onto the cold stone floor of the dungeon. He shook his head abruptly, suddenly very aware of how very wrong the evening could have gone, had he been allowed to keep his voice. Dunstan would have had him flogged for some of the more tame thoughts he'd been cultivating, let alone the worst of the lot. He didn't know what the Professor would have done if Sal had proven him to be a liar with a few slips of his errant tongue.

"Thank you, sir," Sal replied tonelessly, genuinely grateful at last. Snape regarded him coolly and leaned back in his chair. He looked like a fox stalking an injured rabbit: patient and full of unshakeable confidence. Sal couldn't meet his gaze. He looked down at his hands and tried to force them to stop shaking through sheer bloody determination.

"I am glad that we understand one another," Snape told him coolly. Sal winced and dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands. He could handle this. He reminded himself to stay calm, stay obedient. He knew that he would be okay if he just remembered to keep his head down and his mouth shut. "I'm sure you're wondering why I rescued you from the gentle care of Mr Filch and brought you under my wing for the foreseeable future?" Snape asked sardonically. Sal nodded; it was safer if you just agreed with them. Usually. Besides, he had been asking himself that question since he'd been coxed out of his panic and had a potion shoved down his throat. "I will be brief then: I'm going to help you." Sal glanced up in confusion; the Professor managed to simultaneously sneer arrogantly and look painfully awkward, which was quite a feat.

"Thank you, sir" Sal said earnestly, partly just to see if the other man would squirm. He didn't, but he managed to look even more uncomfortable than before, to Sal's horrified delight.

Snape cleared his throat and then appeared to rally himself. "I will keep you out of the way of your master and his minions, as much as it is in my power to do so." He pinned Sal with a stern look. "In return, you will stay with me and aid me in my work, as much as you can. Do you have any experience in potions?" Sal nodded enthusiastically; it was only a partial lie, he could brew well enough, but when it came to the theory he was as much use as a broken wand. Snape didn't seem to notice, and he smiled, looking pleased. "Good. You'll work with me during the day and study as much as I am able to teach you, in the evenings. The time between the end of classes and dinner is yours. Is this agreeable?"

Sal tried his best not to let his jaw fall open in shock, and vehemently nodded his agreement. He forced back the prickling tears that swelled dangerously in the corners of his eyes and swallowed hard. Was it agreeable? It was more than bloody agreeable! Someone was going to teach him? He'd scarcely dared to hope that anyone would ever want to teach him how to use his magic like a proper wizard, especially not after hearing what a nasty, evil, touched-by-the-dark-magic-of-the-devil boy that he was. Sal still didn't know if he could trust Snape properly. He could still be a malicious sadistic bastard of a teacher, but Sal decided then and there that he didn't care. He'd been there before and made it through to the other side.

Sal smiled cautiously and stood as Snape opened a hidden door in the wall and ushered him through to his private quarters. The older man was cold and aloof as he showed Sal into his new room, and rather terse as he explained the layout of the chambers and a few basic rules. They were hardly difficult: stay away from Snape's bedroom, tidy up after yourself, don't tell any of the students where the entrance was, and so on. Sal nodded obediently, and tried to keep the smile off his face, as Snape stared at him icily. It was entirely possible that he was going to regret ever meeting the dour man that had miraculously agreed to tutor him, but Sal really couldn't bring himself to care. He was going to learn, properly learn, about magic, from a proper teacher. He could put up with almost anything for the chance to do that. 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sal and Snape have an important conversation.
> 
> TWs for references to physical and psychological abuse.  
> Please comment and let me know what you think.

The next morning, Sal awoke slowly, to the smell of cooking bacon. He snuggled down in the warm blankets, wrapping himself into a cocoon, pushing out the world and its endless demands, for just a few more precious moments. There was a quiet shuffling sound outside his door, and Sal forced himself up and out of bed and towards the smell of food. Just outside his door, there was a small tray with a plate of toast, bacon, and mushrooms, and a goblet of an orange liquid. Sal glanced down the corridor, but couldn't see any sign of who had left it; he wanted to tell them that they'd got the wrong room, that Professor Snape's was down the corridor, but no one was around. He stared at the food in confusion; his stomach groaned plaintively, reminding him that he had not eaten the night before. He couldn't hear the professor moving about the chambers. A terrible thought crossed his mind. Perhaps no one would notice if the food just…went missing. Sal took a deep breath, and his stomach growled again, making its opinion clearly known. Thinking "sod it", Sal grabbed the tray, retreated into his room, and started stuffing the food into his face as quickly as he could, before he could stop to think about what he was doing and regret his actions. When he was finished, he sat staring at the plate and the evidence of his theft. He moved the cup, only to send a thin sheet of parchment floating to the floor. As he bent over to pick it up, and there was a quiet snap behind him; he spun around and the tray had disappeared. He picked up the parchment, suddenly worried that he had intercepted some important message for the Professor.

He froze in panic; the Professor had trusted him enough to let him into his quarters, and Sal had betrayed him. He didn't know what he was meant to do. He stared down at the note in his hand and contemplated just handing it over to the professor. If Professor Snape was anything like Filch, then Sal would have a beating coming his way. He shuddered and grasped the note tighter. Perhaps he could just pretend that he'd never found it? But then that might get whoever had left the tray in trouble and that would undoubtedly be a house elf. Sal winced and felt his conscience at war with his sense of self-preservation. He thought for a long moment, but ultimately he couldn't do it; he realised that he couldn't let someone else take a beating on his behalf, he would not do that to a fellow slave. There was, after all, always a chance, however small, that Sal might be shown mercy; the Professor had been kind to him thus far.

Taking a deep breath and steeling himself for whatever Professor Snape's reaction may be, Sal made his way out of the chambers. Finding the man's office empty, he decided to look for the professor in his classroom, and quickly made his way up to the Defence Against the Dark Arts room that he'd been sweeping only the day before. He cautiously knocked on the door, and a minute or so later it was wrenched open to reveal Professor Snape's scowling face. Sal flinched back and grasped the note tightly in his shaking hand. He went to speak, but was startled when the professor gave him a small nod of approval.

"Good, you found my note," Professor Snape told him, and ushered him into the classroom, with a curt wave of his hand. "Follow me." Sal obediently followed the Professor through the classroom and into another office, heart pounding. The professor pointed to a cauldron that was set up on a bleached wooden table, and Sal's mind went blank with sudden relief. Somehow, miraculously, he had inadvertently done exactly what the professor required of him. His knees went weak with relief, as Professor Snape busied himself casting a large amount of venting charms. Sal suspected that this office was most definitely not a space meant for potions brewing, judging by Snape's surreptitious glances back into the classroom outside. But Sal had agreed to help Snape brew and therefore he would put up with whatever illicit circumstances that would entail. He felt weak and shaky with relief and felt his hands shake. He clenched them into fists and willed for them to stop; he could not brew with unsteady hands.

He felt the professor's eyes watching him closely, and he forcibly pulled himself together, to listen closely to the list of potions that the man required for him to brew, and answered quickly and precisely as the teacher snapped a few questions about potions theory at him. Sal was unutterably grateful to find that his brewing knowledge would be sufficient for Snape's requirements, as the professor again rewarded him with a short, approving nod. Sal was beginning to feel more confident in the task that he had agreed to, until Professor Snape presented him with a list of instructions for the various potions. He stared blankly down at the incomprehensible words, praying that they would sudden unravel themselves and reveal their meaning to him. The professor was halfway out of the door before Sal mustered up the courage and muttered, cheeks flushing bright red, that he couldn't read the list. The professor raised an eyebrow and looked at the note that Sal had brought up to the office, now abandoned on the side of the table. Sal flushed, and stared at his feet. There was a long moment of silence.

"You don't know how to read?" Professor Snape asked quietly, his face an emotionless mask.

"N-no, sir," Sal had replied quietly, staring at his feet, entirely convinced that he was about to be thrown out of the room on his ear for wasting the man's time. Professor Snape regarded him for a long moment, and Sal felt his skin crawling from the scrutiny. Sal felt his chance at an education slipping away in front of him. "B-but…I'm…" Professor Snape crossed his arms, as Sal spoke. Sal quietly weighed his options, before deciding to Hell with it. He had already defied his master's orders by agreeing to study with the professor; Sal doubted that he could make anything worse by confessing to his other attempts to educate himself. He confessed. "But, I'm t-trying to learn, sir." He swallowed heavily and chanced a look at Professor Snape's face; Sal could swear that there was the hint of a smile on the teacher's lips.

"Indeed," Professor Snape replied, and the trace expression turned into a full on smirk. "And I suppose that this has nothing to do with why Potter and his little friends have been hovering around you?" Sal froze, and an icy dread began to gather in his stomach. He gulped and tried to think of some excuse to get the students out of trouble. "No, don't answer that," Professor Snape told him with a shake of his head, "I don't want to know." Sal barely dared to breathe as the teacher continued. "I will be checking up on your progress to ensure that you are not wasting your time with Potter. At the very least, keeping that boy occupied will prevent him from being any more of a nuisance to me than he normally is." Sal was not entirely sure what the professor meant by that, and thought briefly of mentioning the language barrier issue that he was currently experiencing, but thought better of it. It sounded like Professor Snape was planning to continue to teach him, and he very much did not want to do anything to wreck the fragile chance that he had been given.

"Yes, sir," he replied meekly and chanced a small smile in response to Professor Snape's wry smirk.

"Good." Professor Snape huffed quietly in approval, and Sal felt a strange warmth in his chest. He suddenly wanted very badly to prove himself to this man, who was going above and beyond anything any adult had done for him in the past. "But that still leaves us the issue of the instructions," the professor sighed and shook his head slightly, in consternation.

"I can remember them, sir," Sal promised quietly. "I have a really good memory." Professor Snape watched him for a long moment, before reeling off the instructions for two or three potions. Sal was grateful to realise that he had brewed the pain-relieving potion before, although the other two were unfamiliar. But he was true to his word, and was able to recite the instructions back to the professor verbatim. Professor Snape looked at him closely for a moment and then nodded, and stalked out of the office, leaving Sal to his brewing.

Later that evening, and with a large number of potions stoppered and stored in the vials that the professor had left for him, Sal extinguished the fire under the cauldron and started tidying away. He had not realised how late it had become, as he had been brewing away by himself for a good number of hours. He had always found brewing potions therapeutic; they reminded him of the few happy moments of his childhood, tucked away in the cottage with Isolda, learning how to make salves and ointments, hiding away from his mother and the rest of the world. The brewing process had always helped to calm his turbulent thoughts. There was a method to follow, chopping the ingredients, adding them one by one, and rhythmically stirring until they were ready. He felt like he could see tangible results of his mind and his labour- more so than looking at a floor that he'd cleaned or a pile of wood that he'd chopped. He smiled to himself as he cleaned up the office, happy with a productive day of work. Not long after he had finished wiping down the bench, Professor Snape arrived and cast a judging eye over the vials of potion.

"You need to watch the heat when you are adding ground ingredients, or they won't dissolve sufficiently. The potency of these will be slightly weaker than I would normally expect," Snape declared, and Sal felt his stomach drop. "But they are sufficient for the headmaster's needs."

Sal hung his head in shame. He couldn't believe that he'd fucked up something so simple. The professor had saved him from Dunstan's violence and the tedium of continued toil under Filch. He had promised him an education, and hadn't even cared that Sal was too stupid to even read basic instructions. All that the professor had asked in return was for Sal to brew a few potions. A few simple potions that Sal had managed to fuck up. Sal was sure that the professor was going to cancel their evening's lessons, having realised how incompetent and unteachable Sal truly was. He hunched his shoulders and waited for the terrible words to come.

But they didn't.

"I assume that you will not be eating dinner in the Great Hall?" Professor Snape asked quietly, startling Sal out of his self-condemnation.

"No, sir," Sal shook his head quickly. No, he was not going to eat in the Great Hall with all of the students and teachers, in full view of his betters. He knew his place very well, and it was decidedly not there.

Professor Snape sighed deeply. "In which case, I will continue to have your food sent down to my quarters; I trust that you can find your way back there?" Sal nodded obediently and quietly thanked the professor, unsure what was causing such continued care and consideration from the older man, and considerably relieved that he hadn't stolen the other man's breakfast, especially after he had shown such concern to Sal. "Then I shall see you later this evening for our first lesson." Professor Snape told him curtly, and turned to leave.

"Sir?" Sal called quietly, and the other man half-turned back to him to acknowledge the question. "What should I do until then?" Sal wasn't exactly in the habit of brining more work upon himself, but he felt like he owed more to the professor than a few butchered attempts at potions and his cursory obedience.

"I believe that I told you that this time is yours to dispose of as you wish." Professor Snape replied with a sneer, and stalked out of the office without another word. Sal was left standing awkwardly in the dark office. He shrugged to himself and tried to ignore the professor's strange behaviour, as he made his way back down to the quarters.

He pushed open the door to his room to find another tray, this one with a bowl of stew and a roll of warm, buttered bread, waiting for him. He could only assume that Snape had asked one of the house elves to provide some food for him, and he felt that strange warmth rise in his chest again. It somehow felt a like very different gesture than the plates that Filch had set in front of him with a scowl. Those were a reminder of the nuisance that he was to the irritable caretaker, and a reaffirmation of Sal's inferiority. Professor Snape's provisions were also far superior to the scraps and leftovers that made their way down to him in Lord Gryffindor's hall. Sal ate quickly and washed the plates in the sink, not wanting to seem lazy and ungrateful to the house elves, before he made his way up to the library.

Sal had promised, the day before, that he would meet Lady Ravenclaw again, and his heart was pounding in anticipation. But when he got there and stood waiting among the tall bookcases, he felt a calm wash over him. He found himself genuinely looking forward to the promised conversation. He wasn't sure what he could contribute to any discussion with the great Lady Ravenclaw, but he was more than happy to just listen to her and Lady Hufflepuff talk again. There was something incredible in the way those two spoke, a power that drew everyone around them into their thrall. Sal smiled to himself, and trailed his fingers along the books; he found himself searching for the book that he'd seen yesterday, but he couldn't remember where it had been. He huffed in irritation and glared at the ancient bookshelves in frustration. He tapped his fingers idly against the wooden shelves, and forced himself to calm down.

A few minutes later, and he was feeling restless again. He smoothed down his clothes and winced at the obvious holes and stains in his shirt. Sal ran his hands over the front and willed for them to repair themselves, but to his extreme lack of surprise and to his great irritation, nothing happened. He cursed again, and combed his shaking fingers through his knotted hair. The strands felt greasy between his fingers, and he wished that he'd thought to wash it before he'd come up to the library. It was heavy with sweat of a full day of work, and from the fumes that had gathered from brewing endless potions in a small room, the effect of the professor's ventilation charms aside. He wished he'd thought of washing, but it wasn't something he usually had to concern himself with too much. But he thought that he probably should have made an attempt to improve his appearance, and that that was the sort of thing that one was meant to do before meeting ladies - even if one were attending an illicit meeting. He shifted his weight a bit, and peered around the corner of the bookshelf, but there was no sign of either of the women. He frowned; they were late. He shuffled back in between the tall shelves and glared at the titles again. The minutes ticked on. As it grew later and later, he began to realise that they probably weren't coming and cursed himself for an idiot. Of course they weren't. He didn't know why he had ever thought that they'd want to talk to the likes of him. They were probably just being polite yesterday, and he, scum as he was, had not understood the intricacies of etiquette and had thought that they'd actually intended to meet with him. He was so stupid, and he was clearly getting ideas dangerously above his station. He cautioned himself to be more careful in future; if he didn't remember his place well enough, someone would be certain to remind him of it.

Grabbing a book from the shelf and stuffing it under his shirt - without glancing at the title - Sal desperately tried to ignore the prickling in his eyes. If he hurried, he told himself practically, he could be back in Professor Snape's quarters with time to stash the book, before the professor's promised lesson. He didn't know what text he'd picked up, but he hoped that it would be sufficient for Hermione's plans, and unimportant enough that no one would notice that it was missing from the library. Hermione had promised him that no one would notice a book missing, particularly from an obscure and underused section of the library, but he was still unsettled about taking a book. They were priceless items in his time, despite how ubiquitous they seemed to be in this time. He took a deep breath to steady his nerves, and he shoved his humiliation and hurt deep down in his chest. They were not useful, and he needed to focus if he was going to secrete the book back to Snape's quarters without getting caught.

A few minutes of extreme stress found Sal, the book, and his pounding heart- safely back in his room in Professor Snape's quarters. He carefully removed the book from under his shirt and placed it with reverence under the covers of the bed, smoothing the blankets down so that the shape of the object wasn't visible on first viewing. He hoped that it would be sufficient, and that Professor Snape would have no cause to suspect him, or to check his room. It was not a moment too soon that the book was safely away, as seconds later he heard the main door to the chambers open, and the professor's voice call out to him.

"Yes, sir?" Sal asked, leaving his room and waiting obediently for Professor Snape to address him further. The professor paused in the entryway to the comfortable sitting room that he had pointed out the night before. He cast his eye over Sal and his mouth quirked in a mixture between suspicion and amusement, but did not say anything further. Sal quietly let out a breath of relief and followed the professor into the room.

"I assume that you wish to begin the lesson?" Snape asked him coolly, as he sat down on one of the large, padded chairs and gestured for Sal to sit in the other. With a flick of his wand, the professor lit a fire in the stone grate, and raised an eyebrow at Sal. Sal hurriedly rushed to sit, and nodded his head in agreement. He was pitifully relieved that the professor was still willing to keep his word.

"Your verbal agreement would be preferable," Professor Snape told him archly.

Sal jumped and scratched out a muffled "Yes, sir."

"Then we should first attempt to discern your level of magical education," Professor Snape began, and Sal nodded with relief; this was familiar, it was what he had done with Colin, after all. "I shall then decide in which areas you require the most assistance." The professor paused, and studied Sal closely; Sal felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. "Yesterday, it was suggested that you have some previous experience with magical education." Sal's blood ran cold. He sternly reminded himself that the professor was already aware of his sordid past, and that he was still taking the time to teach him.

There was a long pause, before Sal nodded stiffly. "Yes, sir," he choked out, and stared determinedly at his feet.

Snape regarded him for a long moment and then let out a sigh. "I trust that this is your only experience of magical education, then?" he asked offhandedly, and Sal tensed again.

"N-not really, sir," he replied slowly, and risked a glance up. Professor Snape raised an eyebrow in curiosity, gesturing for him to elaborate. "Well…b-before I learnt some herbs and s-small charms," Sal admitted carefully, keeping the further education that he'd received in pagan magical rituals to himself. He knew well enough than to admit to heresy; he'd already risked being burnt at the stake once in his life.

"Indeed?" Professor Snape acknowledged with a short nod. "Then you shall be starting from a stronger position than many of my students do." Sal sighed softly in relief, wondering if, perhaps, he wasn't a complete lost cause.

"I had originally thought to give you some textbooks to read, but I see that I will need to alter my plans," Professor Snape continued, and Sal felt his stomach plummet.

"Yes, sir," he acknowledged quietly, and stared at his feet. "Sorry, sir."

"I think it is best if we revise some of your basic theory," Professor Snape sighed. He then he began to rattle off incantations, asking Sal to identify those that he recognised. Sal surprised himself with how much he remembered, and by how much he had picked up from observing Lord Gryffindor and the others. But to his dismay, there were still far too many spells that he hadn't even heard of. Sal hung his head and admonished himself for his own stupidity.

"It seems that you have a rudimentary grasp of charms, although your transfiguration could do with a lot more work," Professor Snape told him, finally, leaning back in his chair. Sal felt himself blush under the professor's criticism and tried to remind himself that he needed to know his flaws in order to learn from them. He was far too prideful, he knew that, and reminded himself that he should be grateful that someone was taking time to correct him. But he had never been able to feel grateful whenever someone tore him apart with their words, or knocked him into his place with the back of their hand.

"Yes, sir," he replied, staring at his feet once again. "Sorry, sir."

He tensed as Professor Snape tutted in irritation, and he flinched when the older man suddenly stood up.

"I am not blaming you, you foolish child," the professor hissed in irritation, and Sal flinched again. Professor Snape took a deep breath and seemed to be consciously reigning in his irritation. "It is abominable that your education should have been thus neglected. That is why I am aggrieved. Do you understand me?" He turned and waited patiently until Sal looked up, and then met Sal's eyes squarely. "Do you understand me?" he asked again, and Sal gave a tentative nod in return. It seemed, contrary to all of Sal's previous experience, and against all logic, that the professor was genuinely irate on Sal's behalf. Professor Snape waited for a long moment, watching Sal keenly, before he nodded briskly, and sat elegantly back in his chair. "Then there is another matter that I wish to discuss."

Sal sighed; he knew what was coming, but he was loath to discuss it. He waited for the professor to continue, but when he was met with silence, Sal couldn't help but acknowledge the unspoken subject lying heavily in the air between them.

"My apprenticeship, sir?" Sal asked quietly.

"Indeed."

"What- what is it that you'd like to kn-know, sir?" Sal whispered; he was glad that he'd only stuttered the once. He did not think that he could get through this conversation if his words decided to leave him.

"Everything," Professor Snape replied. "Who taught you, what did you learn, and why did that egregious man think that you had been learning 'evil' magic?" Sal flinched with every question, and felt his heart start to pound in his chest. It took him a few minutes of carefully controlled breathing to find his words and answer. The professor waited patiently.

"I... I was injured, sir," Sal began, thinking it best to start at the beginning. "I was hurt and lost in the forest, and then he f-found me."

"The wizard who apprenticed you? The one that Lord Gryffindor killed?" Professor Snape interrupted sternly.

Sal nodded. "Yes, sir. He healed m-me, as best he could, and let me stay with h-him while I healed. I…" Sal swallowed heavily, "I had n-nowhere else to g-go snd I stayed too long. I wasn't meant t-to see him p-perform magic, b-but I d-did. I th-thought he was going to k-kill me, he was so ang-angry. N-no one was meant to kn-know." Sal felt his mouth go dry and he closed his eyes against the memories that drummed obnoxiously at the back of his mind.

"So he forced you to stay with him," Professor Snape prompted, and Sal realised that he'd fallen silent, "so that you wouldn't reveal his secret?" Sal paused for a moment and considered how to answer the question; but, he ultimately decided, Professor Snape had been good to him so far, and therefore was owed the truth.

"N-no, sir," Sal replied with a self-deprecating smile, "I b-begged him to let me stay. I wanted him to t-teach me."

"And he agreed?" The professor sounded hesitant, as though it was morbid curiosity that compelled him to ask the question, but unsure if he truly wished to know the answer.

"N-not at first, sir," Sal replied with a wince, "B-but, eventually…" Sal had lingered around the man's home for weeks, begging him endlessly to be taken on as his apprentice. Sal had taken the curses flung his way and returned the next day to beg again. He'd even taken to doing small tasks around the land - mending fences and feeding the chickens - to prove that he wasn't some idle, useless child. It had taken a while, but eventually the man had agreed. Tentatively. Sal had been told to continue the chores that he had taken upon himself, and he had been informed that he would have to fend for himself as far as sustenance went. But that had been nothing new to Sal, and he'd agreed immediately.

"He taught you?" Professor Snape's question interrupted Sal's thoughts, and he nodded quickly. "What was it that he taught?"

"All sorts, sir," Sal replied, hunching his shoulders defensively. "A f-few charms to use around the house, some p-potions, a small amount of transfiguration. He even showed me how to b-better channel my magic th-through my hands, so that I could d-do more magic. On a few occasions, he even l-let me use his wand." Sal tried not to look too happy as he reminisced about his old master. He wasn't supposed to have enjoyed any of his time with the man, and Sal was supposed to hate his former master for having exposed Sal to the magic of the devil and thus made him to forfeit his immortal soul. But Sal had never been one for sermons, and the man had taught him a great deal, even if it was often at the end of a sharp curse, or a beating. But he had tried to teach Sal, and Sal had enjoyed learning.

"And the 'evil magic'?" Professor Snape asked, with an arched eyebrow, and Sal felt his heart plummet.

"He wasn't... he wasn't a v-very good man, sir," Sal admitted quietly, "he was angry a lot of the t-time. He wanted to hurt p-people. I th-think, no, I kn-know, that he enjoyed hurting them. He kn-knew a lot of ways to make his magic d-do that." Sal closed his eyes and clenched his fists, using the sharp pain of his ragged fingernails cutting into the callouses on his palms to ground himself in the present. His own screams rang in his ears, a terrible harmony to the tune of a low chuckle and the repeated hiss of "Crucio". Sal knew intimately just how badly that man could make other people hurt.

"And he taught you this magic?" Professor Snape asked, quietly and intently, cutting through Sal's panicked thoughts, and bringing him sharply back to the present.

Sal nodded, eyes still firmly shut. "Some, sir," he admitted, and he hunched his shoulders, waiting for the inevitable blow. When it didn't come, he slowly opened his eyes and saw the professor regarding him calmly and impassively from the other chair. Bizarrely, Sal didn't see any disdain or condemnation from the other man, and that (more than anything) compelled him to continue. "Some of it I j-just…ob-observed." The professor shot him a knowing look, but Sal did not elaborate. He did not want to go into the intricacies of what had been done to him and what he had seen done to others.

"And did you like it?" Professor Snape asked quietly, conspiratorially. Sal felt himself startled by the unexpected question.

"Of course not, sir," he replied, aghast. The hideous things that such magic could do were utterly repulsive. He'd spent countless nights curled up and shaking in terror at the thought of what his master could inflict with the flick of a wand and a breathed word.

"But you did like the power," Professor Snape told him confidently, and Sal felt the breath fly from his lungs. He shook his head desperately, in denial, but the professor only studied him with a terrible, knowing look.

"I wasn't, I d-didn't," Sal stuttered in terror. "I swear, sir."

Professor Snape clenched his fists on the arms of the chair, and Sal shrank back in panic.

"You liked the feeling it gave to you. The knowledge that you could hurt people, hurt anyone, if you wanted to." The professor pressed on mercilessly, and Sal let out a sob. He was going to be killed, he knew it. He shook his head desperately, searching for the denials and words of fear that always stuttered out whenever he was asked to speak about his previous master and the magic that he'd been taught, but Sal couldn't find them. "You hated feeling powerless. You wanted to be strong," Professor Snape continued, "and he showed you how." Sal shook his head and cowered away from the professor, hugging his shaking hands tightly against his chest. "You hated what it did, what he could show you how to do, but you loved what it meant," Professor Snape leant forward in his chair and met Sal's eye with a look of grim understanding. "It meant that you were something, that you were someone."

Sal flinched violently, as another sob wracked his body. Professor Snape sat back in his chair and waited for Sal to compose himself.

"How did you know?" Sal croaked out, half-terrified and half-awestruck that he had just admitted his deepest, darkest, most hideous secret, and that this man somehow, miraculously, seemed to understand.

"Because that's why I learnt the Dark Arts," Professor Snape replied grimly, looking older and wearier with the admission. "I wanted to stop feeling powerless too."

Sal hardly dared to breathe, but he couldn't help the desperate question from spilling out from between his lips. "Did it work?"

The polder man looked at him, his mouth twisted in an ironic smile. "Not at all - in fact, it only made things worse."

Sal nodded in understanding. His master's magic hadn't helped him when Lord Gryffindor's men had arrived, wands raised and curses ready for the dark wizard and his student. It certainly hadn't helped Sal when he'd stared at the tip of Lord Gryffindor's sword, his master's body cooling mere feet from where he knelt, his lifeless hand holding his precious wand tantalisingly out of Sal's reach. Sal had thought that he was going to die, he had prepared himself for the blow that would end his life, and then he'd been spared. No curses or malignant spells had been of any use to him since then either. Sal stared at his hands for a moment as he wondered how to pose his next question, before he took a deep breath.

"D-does that mean, then, that you- I mean, are you a-" Sal couldn't get the words past his lips, and he looked down at his hands again, forcing himself not to shake.

"A Dark Wizard?" Professor Snape asked with a snort. "I suppose I am, but that is not what I will be teaching you. The Dark Arts are both elusive and addictive. But they are not all-powerful, and they are not an answer…or a solution."

Sal frowned at his hands, feeling a strange mixture of relief and disappointment. "Yes, sir," he whispered, unsure of how he was meant to react and hoping that obedience would please the other man.

"Look at me," Professor Snape hissed suddenly, and Sal snapped his eyes up to meet the professor's, his heart leaping to this throat. "I will help you, and I will teach you, but I will not teach you this." Sal felt like the man's gaze could pierce his soul. "Do you understand me?" Professor Snape asked again, his voice like ice. Sal nodded blankly, feeling shaken to his very core. The professor sat back in his chair, and a silence fell over the room.

Sal didn't know what he should think. The professor had just confessed to using evil magic, the type that Sal had been told he was going to Hell for having ever even contemplated using - the type that only evil, monstrous people wanted to use. But the professor had just confessed that he too had used them, that he too had wanted to use them, and he didn't seem like he was tortured by the inevitable fate of his immortal soul. Nor did the professor seem evil or cruel; in fact, he'd been kinder to Sal than many of the adults in his life had ever been. Professor Snape also seemed to regret using such magic, or at least didn't seem incapable of anything casting anything other than hideous, evil spells, spells meant to hurt and to humiliate. Sal didn't know what that meant, and his head and heart both hurt with the uncertainty.

"My master says," Sal began quietly, looking at his hands, and hoping that his voice stayed steady. "That magic like that, like what my old master t-taught me? That it corrupts the soul. He says that I'm g-going to Hell." Sal spoke in a quiet voice, not daring to look up and see the professor's reaction.

"And what do you think?" Professor Snape asked in a voice that wandered dangerously close to sounding gentle.

Sal shrugged helplessly, unable to voice the sheer terror he felt that, maybe, Lord Gryffindor might be right, and that Sal really was a hideous, evil, damned creature who would be damned to an eternity of torture without respite. He did not know how to express the breath-stealing dread that crept upon him on his worst days, when the world felt so black and so hateful and so fucking exhausting that it took the threat of the whip to rouse him from his bed and to his tasks. Or how to explain the debilitating horror of the possibility that he'd fucked himself over so completely, done something so evil, that he had no hope of redemption beyond a lifetime of drudgery and forced servitude; beyond a fate that he balked more at and shied farther from with every passing day. He took a deep breath, but his hands wouldn't stop shaking.

"The headmaster would tell you that it is not what we have done in our pasts, but what we choose to do with our futures that defines us," Professor Snape began slowly and hesitantly. "Perhaps he is correct. Perhaps you need someone to show you another way?" Sal glanced up, but the professor was looking aside, the very picture of discomfort.

"And you, sir?" Sal asked after a long moment. "Did someone show you?"

The professor's face twisted painfully for a moment, and Sal felt like he had intruded on something intensely private. The older man's hands twitched and fidgeted briefly, before he folded them together in his lap. Sal looked away.

"She tried," Professor Snape replied quietly, after a long moment, his voice little more than a whisper. His words were so full of emotion that Sal regretted having asked. Sal nodded quickly, and kept his gaze firmly on his feet.

The silence lay heavily over the two of them, the weight of terrible secrets revealed pushing down on the space between them, like the pressure before an oncoming storm. But Sal did not feel disquieted, instead he felt somewhat shriven, as he imagined one ought to after confession. He wondered if the professor felt the same. Sal shifted and stared deeply into the fire in the grate, watching the patterns flicker in the twisting dance of flame and shadow.

Finally, Professor Snape seemed to shake himself out of whatever thoughts had been preoccupying him. He seemed to have assembled himself back into a terse and professional demeanour. Sal tore his gaze from the hypnotic blaze and forced his attention back to the teacher.

"I think it would be prudent to continue with our lesson," Professor Snape bit out, and Sal nodded emphatically in agreement. "I wish to see your practical wandwork." Sal tensed in anticipation as Professor Snape drew out his wand, but the other man did not point it at him. Instead, he summoned a small paperweight from his office, and placed it on the table in the middle of the room. "Cast a levitation charm on this, if you will."

Sal paused, before frowning in concentration. He pushed his magic down to his palms and tried to will the paperweight to float. He whispered "Wingardium Leviosa" and prayed that the damn thing would listen to him and float. He waited desperately, but nothing happened. Sal sighed in resignation; the paperweight was a damn sight heavier than anything he normally managed to levitate, and it was apparently beyond his magic to do so.

The professor glared at him for a long moment. "And now with your wand, you idiot child." Professor Snape growled at him in irritation. Sal flinched and dropped his eyes to the floor.

"I…I d-don't have one, sir," he replied quietly and flinched sharply at the professor's hissed command to speak up. "I d-don't have one, sir," he repeated. "D-Dunstan said yesterday."

"A wizard without a wand?" Professor Snape sneered contemptuously, and Sal flinched. "I had assumed that the odious man was being deliberately antagonistic," he spat out. Sal flinched again. The professor's mouth turned up in disdain. "Well you can hardly use mine."

Sal started in surprise; he had not thought that that was ever in question. "N-no, sir." He coughed out, forcing down the shocked laughter that threatened to jump out from his errant chest. "I'm n-not allowed to use a wand, sir." He stated simply, as Snape turned to him in askance.

"You're not allowed a wand?" he asked in a voice as dry as dust. Sal swallowed nervously and shook his head. "I take it this is an edict from Lord Gryffindor?"

"Yes, sir," Sal nodded hurriedly. "My master thinks it is t-too great a t-temptation."

Professor Snape scoffed and fixed Sal with a look that looked almost indignant. "Does he indeed? I shall discuss this with the headmaster; perhaps he may persuade the esteemed Lord Gryffindor otherwise."

"Please d-don't, sir!" Sal begged, almost shrieking in terror. "Sir, p-please, I can't, my master- he can't…" Sal trailed off, losing his words as his chest tightened painfully, cutting off his breath. Professor Snape looked at him for a long moment, before nodding slowly.

"Very well, I will not involve your master. I promise you that. But I will speak to the headmaster." The older man spoke softly, but firmly, and Sal didn't dare let out the moan of distress that pushed against his lips, which he held firmly pressed together. "Honestly," Professor Snape continued, muttering to himself as he stalked around the room, "of all the ridiculous…" The professor swept out of the room with a curt "dismissed".

Sal let out a deep sigh of relief, trying to calm his unsteady nerves, silently relieved that the lesson was over for the evening. When he felt somewhat steadier and less light-headed, Sal quietly left the sitting room and retired to his bed. As he lay down in the dark, mind began replaying the night's events; his head pounding and stomach churning with all of the terrifying emotions that had been brought up over the past few hours. Eventually, after tossing and turning for what felt like hours, he sank into a sleep. His dreams were filled with the flashing lights of spells and the chorus of screams.

The next couple of days continued in much the same form, with Sal brewing potions all day for Professor Snape, and then joining him for lessons in the evening. Thankfully, none of their further sessions were as revelatory as the first; instead, they focused much more on the theory of intention and power in the different branches of magic, a concept that Sal had never even contemplated. Sal cast as well as he could through his hands, and was pleased to see that the professor's instruction helped him improve what little he had previously been able to achieve. The professor had not raised the issue of wands again, and Sal had not dared ask him whether he had spoken to the Headmaster. Illicit magic lessons against his master's express wishes were one thing, but using a wand, let alone owning one… Sal shuddered as his mind conjured terrible images of what his master would do to him when he found out, and he always found out. It was dark thoughts such as these that preoccupied him as he worked on the potions for Professor Snape, and in the moments before he fell asleep.

It was also what distracted him, as he wandered through the dungeon corridors early on Wednesday morning. Professor Snape had left for breakfast, and Sal had needed a few moments to clear his head. There had been a breakfast tray left outside his room once more, but it was only the voice inside his head that balked at wasting food that had made him eat. Someone had been delivering his meals to the professor's quarters, and Sal did not want them to think that he was ungrateful. He had not yet seen whoever was delivering the food, as much as he had tried to catch them in the act. He really wanted to thank whoever was looking after him so attentively; he had never eaten so well in his life. But not even the sensation of a full stomach or the lingering taste of creamy porridge and sweet honey was enough to distract him from the terrible images flooding his brain.

Sal took a deep breath of the cool morning air, and tried to push his thoughts back onto a happier subject, but the threat of his master's wrath hung like a dark cloud over his head. He shook himself and turned to head back to the professor's quarters, intending to get in some reading practise before another day of brewing, when someone grabbed his arm and started dragging him along the corridor. Sal yelped and froze, flinching. He was forcibly spun around, and found himself face to face with Draco Malfoy.

"You're coming with me," Draco told him firmly, tightening his grip on Sal's upper arm and steering him away down the dungeon corridor. Sal flinched and tried to tear his arm away from the other boy's grasp, but Draco had a surprisingly strong grip.

"What's g-going on?" Sal asked quietly.

"Not here," Draco hissed at him. "You'll find out soon enough."

Sal's stomach dropped to his feet, as his mind – anxious and weary with thoughts of punishment – convinced him that Draco must be taking him back to his master. Sal's rudeness and errant behaviour must have been noticed, and the other boy was doing his duty to the school by bringing Sal to face the consequences of his actions. Or perhaps Snape had spoken to the headmaster, and Sal's master had demanded his presence to confess to his crimes. He found himself shaking, and he stared firmly at his feet to avoid tripping up as he was dragged along.

Draco steered them deeper into the bowels of the dungeons and closer to the warmth of the kitchens, driving Sal away from the busier corridors that were beginning to fill with stumbling, half-awake students. Sal swallowed around the lump in his throat, with great difficulty. Perhaps, he thought, he was not being taken to his master after all. His master wouldn't dream of setting foot in the dungeons, unless there was someone of suitable note being kept down there. The thought of Sal ever being worthy of such attention was beyond laughable. But that didn't mean that he had no reason to worry; his master's servants were an entirely different matter. They had no qualms about forcing Sal into dark cells, Dunstan in particular. Sal was not stupid enough to fail to recognise that he was being taken somewhere quiet, with fewer witnesses; he knew what that meant.

Finally, Draco stopped in front of an unassuming looking stone door. He knocked on it in a series of raps that sounded like a carefully rehearsed pattern, and it was opened by one of the largest people that Sal had ever seen. The boy behind the door was huge, at least six foot tall and made of pure muscle. Sal flinched back from Draco and tried to struggle away, but the other boy just shot him a strange look and pulled him inside.

Behind the hulking troll of a man, the room was almost empty. There were two plush-looking green armchairs and a small wooden table on the far side of the room, arranged around a roaring log fire, but there was no other furniture. Draco immediately dropped Sal's arm and made his way over to the fire, warming his hands in front of the blaze. Sal backed slowly away into the corner closest to the door and concentrated very hard on being as small and quiet as was humanly possible. Draco didn't even acknowledge him; instead, he shot a vicious glare at the boy who had opened the door.

"You couldn't have cast a heating charm on this place, Goyle?" Draco complained loudly, as he shivered extravagantly in his robes. "This fire is not nearly magically powerful enough to heat the whole room." The other boy blinked once and then scowled in irritation. Sal closed his eyes briefly and tried very hard not to think about how it would feel to be struck by one of those huge arms.

"You can do it yourself next time," Goyle grumbled and closed the door. He leant awkwardly against the wall and slowly crossed his arms. "Didn't have time," he grumbled. "Took me bloody ages to do those chairs. You know I'm shit at Transfiguration."

"Yes, well. Good work, Goyle," Draco muttered through gritted teeth, blushing slightly, as if the words had cost him a great deal to say. "You can leave us now."

Sal looked up, surprised at the dismissal. He hardly thought Draco would be concerned about being alone in a room with him; Sal knew he was no physical threat whatsoever, and the limited magic that he could do without a wand would be laughable against Draco's years of training with a proper magical weapon. That was even if Sal was able to even think about seriously launching an attack against anyone, without freezing and starting to shake with terror. His master had gone to great lengths to make sure he was properly trained. But, nevertheless, Sal was still surprised that Draco wanted to be alone with him; he had thought that the other boy, the monstrous giant of a wizard, was there to beat the shit out of him. If Draco wanted him gone, did that mean that he was going to just use straight magic against Sal?

The ogres eyes darkened and he stepped forwards; Sal flinched back even further into his corner, but that terrifying look was focused solely on Draco.

"You know," Goyle said tersely, "You've been acting like a right dick lately, Draco. You might want to remember who your friends are once in a while. Vincent and I were talking and we're getting a bit pissed off. You've been ordering us round like bloody house elves since we came back from summer!"

"Friends, Goyle?" Draco raised an eyebrow at the wall of muscle and smirked. Sal wasn't sure if the other boy was downright suicidal or just very, very quick with a wand. "How touchingly sentimental. You'd do well to remember just whose orders I'm following this year." Draco smiled thinly and the other boy took a step back, running a hand over the back of his neck. "Of course, I'm sure our Lord would be just thrilled to hear how difficult you're finding all of this. How hard this is for you both." Goyle took a further step back and flicked his eyes over to the corner where Sal was cowering.

"Yeah? Well I'm sure he'd love to hear how focused you are on his orders. How you aren't letting anything distract you?" Goyle shrugged his shoulders, and Draco's eyes flickered over to Sal and then back to the fire.

"Goyle…Gregory...I." Draco faltered for a moment, before squaring his shoulders and pulling himself up to his full height, as if readying himself for a fight.

"Ah, save it Draco," Goyle said, looking suddenly weary. "I don't want to have a bloody fight with you. Just maybe remember that we're your bloody friends every once in a while." He wrenched open the door and stormed out, the resounding crash of the slammed door echoing in the silence behind him. Sal had no idea what to make of the whole scene, but it seemed as if Sal's presence, or at least Draco's interest in it, was causing some contention amongst the two friends. He had originally assumed the hulking boy to be some kind of vassal or servant, but the way that he spoke to Draco was far more familiar than that.

Draco took a moment to gather himself, rubbing a hand over his eyes, and wringing his hands loosely, before he shook himself and gestured for Sal to sit in one of the large arm chairs. Sal did so with a great amount of trepidation, unsure what the other boy intended from him. He eyed Draco warily and perched on the edge of his seat, ready to run at the first sign of trouble.

Draco regarded him superiorly, peering at Sal down his nose, no sign of the nervousness that he had displayed only moments ago creeping into his expression. Sal shifted nervously under his gaze, and the other boy smiled predatorily, folding himself graciously into the other chair.

"So…" Draco leered, leaning forwards in his chair. Sal fixed his eyes very firmly on the other boy's hands. "Sal." Draco said his name with a sneer, twisting the word with derision, spitting the letters from his mouth as if they were poison. Sal glanced up at Draco's face, and the other boy smirked widely. "Or as I should call you…Salazar Slytherin."

Sal lowered his head, forcing himself not to roll his eyes. He had hoped that the other boy had forgotten his ridiculous delusions, or that Sal's attempts to manipulate Draco would have convinced the other boy to just leave him alone. Sal sighed and stared at the fire wearily; he should have known better than to think that anything in his life would be that easy. An awkward silence fell over the room as Sal waited for Draco to get on with whatever he had brought him there for. As the minutes dragged on, Sal began to suspect that Draco did not how to progress the meeting any further. He sighed and risked another glance at the other boy's face. Draco was looking at him like a cat views a trapped mouse. He shivered and Draco lips quirked minutely.

"I have realised," Draco began quietly, "that you are not the man that our history knows as the greatest dark wizard of all time." Sal sighed in relief, and shifted in his chair, hoping that this whole affair would soon be over, but Draco fixed him in place with a look. Draco let a smirk spread over his face, held up a single finger for a long moment, and then continued with a simple, carefully pronounced word: "Yet."

Sal grimaced in confusion, and Draco huffed in irritation. "I find myself, however, currently inclined towards philanthropy," Draco admitted, learning forwards and twirling his wand airily. Sal flinched back, and kept his eyes firmly on the weapon, unsure of what the delusional and obsessive young man might do to him. "I'm going to make you my next project," Draco continued, and Sal felt his eyebrows shoot up, despite himself. He had no desire to be anyone's project, let alone this ridiculous child's. Draco continued obliviously. "You clearly don't know your own potential, so I shall teach you. You made a masterful attempt to convince me, but I saw through your pitiful machinations. You could do so much better, and I am going to show you how." Draco finished his speech with a pompous nod, his smile a fraction too forced to look comfortably self-satisfied. Sal kept his focus on Draco's wand as a reminder not to open his mouth and say something stupid. He liked to think of himself as a relatively intelligent person, and Draco had just shown him that he was evidently not as clever as he had thought. That was a little humiliating. There was another long pause, before Sal realised that Draco was waiting for his reaction.

"Sir," he said quietly, not sure what he was meant to say. Draco scoffed and twirled his wand again, clearly expecting a different response.

"This is why you need my help," Draco announced imperiously. "You clearly do not appreciate the opportunity that I am presenting to you." Sal slowly took in, and then released, a deep breath. Draco swept his wand down, and Sal flinched violently, but Draco did not cast at him. Instead, he fixed Sal with a serious look. "I am offering you power," he said quietly, and Sal's eyes snapped up to meet the other boy's. "I am going to show you how to act like a proper pureblood wizard, and I am going to show you the legend that you will become. I am going to show you how to be Slytherin." Sal met Draco's eyes and saw nothing but ardent sincerity, and a touch of desperation, within them. He took a deep breath and nodded briefly. Draco's face split into a brilliant smile, showing - for a brief moment - the child that still lingered beneath his performance of adulthood. "We start after the holidays," he told Sal firmly. He then nodded at Sal, and waved a magnanimous hand in dismissal. Sal took the opportunity and left the room as quickly as possible. He rushed back to Snape's quarters and tried to focus his thoughts on his book, forcing himself to do something constructive with the few remaining minutes of his free time before he began his work for the day. It did not work, and he found himself even more confused and disgruntled than before.

Sal did not know what to make of his meeting with Draco, or quite what the other boy expected to achieve with him. He puzzled over it for the rest of the day, running Draco's words backwards and forwards through his mind, as he stirred batch after batch of Strengthening Solution. He had known that Draco thought he was some kind of mythical wizard, but he had thought that the other boy had long since realised that Sal was nothing more than some pathetic slave and decided to leave him be. Sal had not seen much of Draco over the past few days and had allowed himself to grow complacent. But Draco had not seemed entirely ridiculous. He had promised to teach Sal more about etiquette, after all, and that would be important if Sal ever wanted to be more than some gutter-snipe bastard. Draco had also promised to show him how to be powerful. Sal did not know how to be powerful without physical strength and destructive magic. The type of magic that he'd sworn to Snape, after that first lesson, that he wouldn't try to learn. Perhaps, Sal slowly concluded, it might be to his advantage to listen to what Malfoy had to say. Sal sighed at how complicated his life had suddenly become, within a short space of time. He turned his attention back to the potions and lost himself in the rhythm of the brew, glad that some things, at least, were still simple and logical.

Later that day, Sal found himself stood in the Headmaster's office, armed with only tray of potions vials and a nonsensical password to explain his trespassing. He had been sent to deliver the Headmaster's daily dose on behalf of a severely busy and extremely irate Snape, and his hands shook with fear at being somewhere that he shouldn't. Upon walking into the room, Sal had nearly cried with relief that the Headmaster had not been present and wanted nothing more than to just place the tray on the desk and escape back to the dungeons. His atrocious luck, however, took that precise moment to make itself once again known. With a sudden flash of light, the fire roared and flared a deep green. Sal jumped in shock, knocking into the table and sending the numerous trinkets rattling. He desperately tried to steady them, as a figure stepped out of the flames. Sal left the ornaments, hands trembling, and backed slowly towards the door.

"Oh, it's you," the figure said in pleased surprise. Sal froze in shock, startled, as he suddenly realised that it was Lady Hufflepuff standing and brushing embers off her robes in the middle of the office.

"M-m'lady," he stuttered out, heart pounding wildly. He sketched out a quick bow, and tried to compose herself. He stared blankly for a long moment, but there was a single thought running through his mind that demanded his attention. "You were in the fire!" he exclaimed, before immediately slapping a hand over his mouth. He flinched, cursing himself for being an idiot and allowing his mouth to run away with him.

Lady Hufflepuff only laughed in delight. "Isn't it wonderful?" she asked him, eyes sparkling with excitement. "They can travel by fire here, did you know? They call it floo powder." She finished dusting off her robes and fixed Sal with a wide grin. Sal slowly straightened up from his bow, watching her warily as her smile slowly faded. He wished that she would dismiss him, so that he could return back to the dungeons. He did not want to tempt fate, and his master could step out of the hearth, or through the door, at any moment.

"I am glad to chance upon you," Lady Hufflepuff told him merrily, and Sal froze. It was never good when anyone showed any kind of interest in him, especially not when he was somewhere he really oughtn't to be.

"M'lady," he said quietly, and then fell silent. He didn't know what to say; he could ask her to let him leave, and anything else might be seen as an affront. But he didn't want to stay in the office any longer than necessary. If someone were to walk in on them, to find him in the headmaster's office, and alone with a lady… Sal did not want to know how that situation would end. Lady Hufflepuff looked at him with concern, as her smile dropped completely from her face. Sal cringed further towards the door.

"This is a fortuitous meeting," she told him quietly, and he flinched. She frowned at him and then she continued. "I should take this opportunity to apologise for the other day. Lady Ravenclaw and I were most remiss." Sal squirmed in discomfort and confusion, unsure quite what he was meant to do with that apology. Lady Hufflepuff smiled again, gently, and he dropped his eyes back to his feet. "We made an appointment that we failed to keep." Sal looked up in shock. They had meant to meet him? He hadn't misconstrued the situation? Lady Hufflepuff sighed gently. "I would explain the reasons for our absence, but any excuses would be impolite, and no academic adventure of Rowena's could truly absolve our rude behaviour."

Sal frowned again, it sounded as though the ladies had truly meant to meet him in the library the other day, and that they had really wanted to see him. He didn't quite know what to make of that.

"M'lady," he replied warily, and she sighed again.

"Perhaps this is not the best place to speak," she acknowledged quietly, and Sal forced himself not to roll his eyes at the obviousness of such a remark. It was not his place to question her.

"No, m'lady," he agreed again, hoping that she would let him leave.

"Then you will join us in the library later," she told him with a beaming smile, as if the idea had just come to her and she were pleased with her own genius. Sal frowned in confusion and continued to stare at his feet. "Lady Ravenclaw and I shall be there, and we can continue our discussion of the other day." He looked up in shock. She rolled her eyes and shot him a wry look. "Rowena spoke to the headmaster, and he confirmed your theory about the castle's magic interfering with our ability to understand language; she is most interested to pick your brains further on the subject." Sal frowned and tried not to panic. That theory was entirely Hermione's, and it was also the single most complicated piece of magical theory that had ever deigned to pass through his brain. He was not sure what more he could possibly contribute, and did not think that he would be well received when that revelation came out. But Lady Hufflepuff had not asked him to meet with them, she had told him to. He could not ignore an order from anyone higher in station than him, let alone a lady's companion. He closed his eyes in resignation and nodded his agreement. Lady Hufflepuff clapped her hands in delight and beamed. "Oh how wonderful, Rowena will be thrilled." Sal highly doubted that, but bowed regardless, casting a longing glance at the door that led away from the office and the ever increasing possibility of discovery. "But I'm keeping you from your work," she gasped in dismay. Sal added the "again" in his head, but merely bowed in response and tried not to sob with relief as she ushered him out of the door, with a reminder to be at the library that evening.

Sal had spent the next few hours in dread, anticipating the upcoming meeting with a heavy sense of doom. He tried to remind himself that he should be excited to meet with these two outstandingly intelligent, dynamic women - these two women who, for some ridiculous reason, thought that he might have something interesting to say to them- but he couldn't. His brain kept reminding him of the sick sense of self-loathing that he had felt the last time that he had stood in the library, waiting fruitlessly for a meeting that did not occur. But he squared his shoulders regardless, and forced himself to make the walk up to the library, hoping against hope that he wasn't setting himself up as the fool, yet again. To his intense surprise, not only were both women sat at a table in the far corner discussing summoning charms, they were both waiting for him. He quietly sat down and listened in awe to their conversation, which they seamlessly reached out and brought him into. He had nothing at all to contribute and so sat quietly, listening. He nodded vehemently when Lady Ravenclaw turned to him for support when Lady Hufflepuff disputed her theory, and looked ponderous when the conversation turned to something esoteric. He sat with them for an hour, understanding barely anything that they said and loving every minute of it. Eventually, sensing that he was going to be late, he extracted himself from the conversation, with a promise to meet them again the next day. He left the library, delirious with pleasure at having been so casually treated like an equal (like an academic equal) by two such incredible women, and practically floated through his evening lesson with Professor Snape.

As such, by the time that Friday rolled around, Sal felt like his head was going to collapse with the sheer amount of knowledge that he had crammed into it in such a short period of time, but it was a good feeling. Instead of feeling daunted by how little he knew, and how behind he was compared to others of his age, he felt the thrill of a challenge. He could do better, and someone was finally showing him the way.

His good mood was reflected in the school around him. The halls were decorated in bright baubles and thousands of floating candles floated in the corridors, filling the air with a heady, spicy aroma that made Sal's head ache. The whole castle seemed to shine with the anticipation of a holiday. Sal had been surprised to learn that students had such a long time away from their studies, but he rationalised that they must have long journeys back to their homes, and that they need a large amount of time to travel such distances. They were due to leave the school the next morning, but that was not the topic on everyone's minds. Instead, the students were all buzzing with excitement over some kind of party that was happening that evening. Sal had thought that it was a festival for the whole castle to participate in, and had not been looking forward to the evening. Feasts and other holiday celebrations were never times of relaxation for him, and he did not want to spend an evening serving hundreds of students and avoiding the drunken attentions of his master's staff. He was not a favoured slave who might be granted freedom at such a time of year, and Dunstan delighted in reminding him of that fact with a good beating. Thankfully, Sal discovered that the party was only for a select few students, Harry, Hermione and- Ginny included. Harry did not seem at all excited about the evening, and although Sal was silently very relieved, he made sure to look sufficiently sympathetic whenever Harry lamented the exclusive party.

His unexpected escape from what he had thought would be an evening of drudgery was not, however, the only thing that caused his good mood. His reading lessons had also been progressing much more productively since Hermione's suggestion to bring another text. It hadn't mattered, in the end, that he'd just grabbed some random book off the shelf. Hermione had enough knowledge of what she called 'Old English' to help him and Colin piece together a lesson plan that actually worked. He always left the room with his head throbbing, and the taste of that terrible leaf brew that they insisted on drinking lying heavily on his tongue, but he felt like he was improving. His progress was slow, of course, but it was progress nonetheless.

There was not much time to spare before the others had to get ready for the party. Sal made his way up to the seventh floor as quickly as possible after he had left Lady Ravenclaw and Lady Hufflepuff in the library. As it was their last lesson before Colin and the others left for Christmas, they spent a quiet few hours revising what Sal had already learnt. He was thrilled to realise just how much he could remember, and Hermione and Colin went gone to great lengths to encourage him that he was learning particularly quickly. Colin also brought – alongside the usual pot of disgusting stewed leaf drink – a plate of sweet 'mince' pies. Sal had never eaten anything so sweet and delicious before, and he was disappointed to see how quickly the plate was devoured. He didn't dare ask for another, after Harry had been kind enough to put one on his plate in the first place, but he dearly wished that someone had offered him another. But, Sal thought to himself, it might be that they were a delicacy for the Christmas festival; if they were, then it was very generous for them to share with a mere slave in the first place.

Despite Sal's adventures with confectionary, the evening passed merrily, and Sal found himself feeling, for want of a better word, content. He realised that he would miss this odd group of students and the irrational care that they showed to him. As he bid them good night and wished them the joy of the season and luck on their journeys home, he felt a sharp pang in his chest and a sense of wistfulness overcame him. He was not one to dwell on what could be, as opposed to what was, but he couldn't help but think, as he meandered his way back down to Snape's quarters for their evening lesson, that it would be very nice indeed if he could stay here, in this time. If only he could spend all of his time learning and discovering the potential of his magic with similar minded people. If only he could stay here with people that treated him almost like an equal, with people that encouraged him and cared about his opinions or desires.

He paused for a moment as he felt his eyes start to prickle. To his horror, he felt a sob rising in his chest. He hurriedly ducked behind the nearest suit of armour and took a few deep breaths, composing himself and chiding his thoughts for leading him astray. When he felt like he had a little more control of himself, he ducked out from behind the armour and started to walk, as briskly as he dared, back to Snape's quarters. He hoped that he had not made himself late with his foolish fancy. The fact of the matter was that he was not free to do as he pleased. He was a slave, and no amount of hoping and wishing was going to change that. This was a brief moment of respite in his otherwise extraordinary and pathetic life; a miraculous moment, but one that would surely end. He knew better than to hope for the impossible. Yet, as he turned the corner and paused at Snape's door, rubbing his eyes clear of any stray, rebellious tears that might have lingered there, he sent up a silent prayer to a God he wasn't sure that he believed in that, just this once, he might be allowed to keep such a good thing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nerdy notes below the line:
> 
> It was common for masters to free favoured slaves on certain high days and holy days. Unfortunately for Sal, that's not really on the table for him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! The next chapter is here!
> 
> Tw for references to abuse, but nothing major.
> 
> Please read and review and let me know what you think.

The days following the students' departure had been very quiet for Sal. He had turned up to Professor Snape's classroom the morning after he had said goodbye to Harry and the others, ready to brew as per usual. The professor had, however, looked at him scathingly and asked him if he did not understand the concept of a holiday. Sal had not even stuttered out a reply, before he was unceremoniously banished from the professor's presence with an order to take a break from work. Sal had rushed from the room, and spent the rest of the day terrified, convinced that the professor had grown tired of him and was going to call a stop to their lessons. When Professor Snape had called him into the sitting room that evening, Sal was certain that he was about to banished, but to his great surprise and immense delight, the professor had only barked at him to revise his knowledge of cheering charms. Sal had been forced to accept that the professor genuinely expected him to take a holiday.

Over the next few days, he began to realise just how little free time he had on his hands. Most of his life had been spent busy at one task or another; even as a small child, he had spent countless hours looking for small jobs that might earn him a coin or two, or scrounging the streets for scraps to feed himself and his mother for the night. Sal found that he did not know what to do, now that he had whole days to himself and all of his basic needs met for him by the professor. He had felt horrendously guilty that the headmaster would not be receiving the urgent potions that he needed, simply so that Sal could lie aimlessly around in his room. He had haltingly expressed his concern to the professor, and had been rewarded with a blank look and a command to put such concerns from his mind, and a reassurance that looked as if it had hurt in passing through the older man's lips that the headmaster would be fine. Sal had begun to suspect that Professor Snape had been having him brew a surplus of potions, more than the headmaster actually required, to fill up the stocks. Sal thought this was basic common sense, but he dared not ask the older man to confirm his suspicions.

Without chores to occupy his time, and with no one bothering him with demands and orders, Sal had retreated to his bedroom and practised reading with a fervour that was almost possessed. He found that with continued hours of practise, he could finally string together a few basic sentences. He felt a deep thrill of pride every time he managed to link together the words in his stolen book, which was something that he hadn't felt towards himself in a good few years. Afterwards, his head would ache and his eyes sting so badly that large black spots would dance across his vision (as they often did when he was particularly hungry or exhausted), but he thought that the headway that he was making was definitely worth such minor annoyances.

It was not only Sal's reading that had been trying his wearied mind; his lessons with Professor Snape had started to increase in both complexity and length. The older man had still not mentioned anything about a wand (for which Sal was very grateful), and so their lessons stayed focused on the theoretical. Sal tried his best to be as diligent and attentive as possible, but he was painfully aware of how slowly he was progressing. He didn't know why the professor was being so patient with him; had Sal been the teacher, he would have kicked himself out and back to Filch days ago. For some reason, however, the Professor was allowing him to stay and had even begun to nod curtly in approval whenever Sal finally comprehended a new concept. The older man was a strange presence in Sal's life; he was curt and abrasive, but he was not needlessly cruel. He didn't shout, or manhandle him about the room, and he hadn't hit him once. Sal thought that the man was bloody miraculous; he could not remember ever having gone so long without being struck in his life.

Christmas had approached and then passed very quietly, with Sal occupied in his quiet study. The professor had not mentioned anything about fasting ahead of the Christmas feast, and Sal had not seen to remind the older man of religious observances. After all, who was he to dictate the actions of his betters? Thankfully, Sal hadn't been requested to serve at the Christmas feast, and had been allowed to stay within Professor Snape's quarters. He had been delighted to receive a plate of food from the kitchens, full of tender cuts of roast beef and of butter coated vegetables, all doused in a thick, salty gravy. Having seen the amazing quality of the food served even to servants such as Filch in this time, he had no doubt that he was eating leftovers from the main table. He was sure that that was the case for most of the food that came his way, but he was incredibly grateful nonetheless; he was eating better than he had ever before, and he even thought that he might be starting to put on a little weight.

He had passed the whole of Christmas day in his room, alone, as the professor had been required to watch the students. No one had bothered him, accosted him, or leered over him with breath stinking of alcohol. He had even been able to burn a small log in the corner of his room. It was nowhere near a proper Yule ritual, as he'd performed it in a manic rush, heart pounding and hands shaking as he lit the flame, convinced that the professor would walk back in on him at any moment. But it was the first time that he had been able to perform the rites since… well, in a very long time. Professor Snape had returned back to the quarters later that night, and called Sal into the sitting room. Sal had been terrified that his heretical little stunt had been found out, but the professor had just told him to sit down and then presented him with a cup of tea and a mince pie. Sal had been so nervous he could barely hold the cup of the disgusting brew in his shaking hands, but he had enjoyed the pie immensely. They'd sat in silence by the fire for a long while, before the professor had summoned a glass and a decanter of sharp smelling honey-coloured liquid. As soon as the older man started drinking, Sal had quietly excused himself and retired to bed. It had been, in short, one of the best Christmas days that Sal had ever experienced.

A few days later, with the festive period still at its height, Sal was sat in the library. Over the past week or so, he had continued to meet with Lady Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, rejoicing in his abundance of free time and how it allowed him to sit with them for long hours. There wasn't much that he was able to contribute to the conversation, but it was incredible to him that the two women tolerated his company. He often found that the two of them shared jokes and smiles that passed straight over his head, but he was thrilled that he could just sit and bask in their company and incredible intellects. Lady Ravenclaw, in particular, had a fierce and biting wit, but Lady Hufflepuff was cheerful and charming enough to counter her friend's more acerbic nature. He knew it was only a matter of time before they got bored of him and he was cast back into the obscurity of his former life, resigned to chance glimpses of their amazing intellectualism. But, he firmly reminded himself, until they realised how contemptible and odious he truly was, he was going to enjoy every second that he got with them.

Lady Ravenclaw cut through his thoughts with a loud scoff, and he smiled faintly. She had been expounding on her latest theory on the importance of wand movements in spell strength for almost a full ten minutes and was clearly disgruntled at whatever response Lady Hufflepuff had given. Sal stayed quiet, as usual; he had precious little to contribute to the discussion, as he had only used a wand on a handful of occasions, so he just watched the two women talk. Lady Ravenclaw's eyes were bright with enthusiasm, as she leant forward in her seat, gesturing emphatically to stress her point. Two spots of colour sat high on her cheekbones as she continued to talk, and her hand kept jolting upwards to brush aside the strands of long, dark hair that kept falling in front of her eyes. Lady Hufflepuff watched her with a wide, affectionate smile; her eyes were soft and faint wrinkles formed in the corners, as she regarded her friend. She was nodding along and humming softly in agreement whenever Lady Ravenclaw paused for breath, although it seemed she was far more occupied in her observation of her friend than she was in the words that she was speaking.

Lady Ravenclaw's gestures grew just a touch too enthusiastic and she nearly knocked over the stack of books that were sat before her on the table. She grabbed them and righted them with a rueful look, and both ladies burst into quiet laughter; they did such things frequently and Sal had already grown used to the lack of proper decorum. Lady Hufflepuff reached into her pocket and pulled out an elegant green handkerchief to wipe a stray tear from the corner of her eye. It was a beautiful piece of cloth, dyed the deep colour of a fir tree, and heavily embroidered in golden thread.

Sal was, once again, acutely aware of the sorry state of his clothing. The professor had offered to source him something else to wear, but Sal had been too mortified to do more than squeak out a refusal and then hide himself away in his room until he was sure the professor would had forgotten his original offer. His master was supposed to provide his clothing; Sal did not want to think what kind of insult it would be if he were to walk around in something provided by anyone else. He had, however, been embarrassed by the professor's remarks, and had done his best to wash his shirt in the bathroom. The cloth was at least now a clean - if not faded and worn - grey, but it was still filled with an embarrassing number of holes. Sat in the company of two elegant ladies in their brightly coloured and immaculate dresses, Sal couldn't help but feel very dirty and low indeed. He desperately wished that he'd accepted the professor's offer, even if it would have meant swallowing what little he had left of his pride and exposing himself to his master's affronted temper. Sal brushed his hands once more over his ragged clothing, and then shook his head to clear his thoughts. He shoved his mind away from the deep shame that lay over him like a heavy winter cloak, and focused back on the conversation at hand; the ladies had moved on from the topic of wand movements, and Lady Hufflepuff was again talking.

"The wording of the spell itself is integral to the power though, is it not, Rowena?" she questioned slowly, a look of deep contemplation on her face. She tapped her wand idly against her cheek as she spoke, ignoring the faint shower of golden sparks that tumbled from it with every gentle strike. "Therefore, shouldn't the language be important also?"

Lady Ravenclaw paused, and then smiled brightly, her eyes bright with the look of delight she assumed whenever she was posed with a question to which she did not know the answer. "I propose a question: is there then a perfect language for magic?" the question rolled off her tongue like honey, and she looked delighted with herself. "A tongue through which magic is rendered in its purest form?"

"Surely that would be Latin?" Lady Hufflepuff shot back, a smirk on her face. "That is the language of our beloved church, my love." Her voice was just an inch shy of sarcastic, and it was only careful control that kept Sal's eyebrows from shooting up his face. Lady Hufflepuff ignored him, however, and leant forwards, her chin resting on the palm of her hand, as she quirked an eyebrow at her friend. Lady Ravenclaw's eyes went wide and flickered over to Sal for a brief moment, before she smiled tightly and nodded quickly, all amusement swept from her face.

"You're quite right of course, Helga," she replied quietly, her eyes focused on the hands that she held tightly clasped in front of her. Sal was so transfixed by the sudden change in demeanour that he almost missed the look of concern that Lady Hufflepuff sent towards her friend. Sal did not fully understand what was going on between the two women, but he sensed that either one or both of the ladies had some form of issue with the church. That was something he could entirely empathise with, but Lady Ravenclaw clearly did not want to broach the topic with him. He was a little wounded at the lack of trust that showed in him, but then again, he was endlessly careful about his own heresy, and would probably not have uttered a word on the subject either. He knew very well that one did not outright criticise the church in front of another living soul, pitiful and insignificant slave or not.

He averted his eyes to the table in front of him, and traced the countless words carved into the wooden surface. He could make out most of the letters, ignoring those whose handwriting he was pretty certain would be illegible even to Hermione, and he smiled slightly to himself. As he ignored the silent conversation that he knew the two ladies were holding above his head, his thoughts drifted idly to the room on the seventh floor. He dragged his finger over the ragged letter 'R' on the table top, and was reminded of one particular evening, just before the other had left for the holidays. He had been sat, nursing a cup of the vile tea that Harry insisted on serving, listening as Hermione explained all about different alphabets, and runes, and all the different kinds of writing out there in the world. He had been particularly interested in the concept of hieroglyphics, but Hermione had clasped a hand over her mouth as soon as she realised that she'd drifted so far off topic and had refused to say anything more about them; she had been terrified of revealing something to him that had not yet been discovered in his time. Sal had quietly mentioned that there were a great many things known by the scholars of his time that Sal had no idea about, but Hermione had remained resolutely tight-lipped.

A stray thought niggled at the back of his mind, something to do with languages and magic. He vaguely recollected that Hermione had mentioned something about how runes were used for warding, and that the magic was stronger because the runes were written down. He glanced up at the two ladies, but they were both staring at each other, mouths tight and devoid of their usual humour. The tension lay over their group like a dark storm cloud, and Sal's throat tightened in dismay.

"Wards," Sal found himself blurting out suddenly. Both women turned to look at him, started, and he clasped a hand over his mouth, embarrassed and shocked at his own forwardness and at the nonsensical statement that had just passed his lips. Instead of reprimanding him, however, Lady Ravenclaw looked at him in curiosity, and Lady Hufflepuff smiled at him warmly. Her eyes were alight with gratitude that Sal did not feel as though he had earned; he had not meant to speak up and break the awkward silence, at all.

"Yes?" Lady Hufflepuff encouraged, and Sal slowly dropped the hand from his mouth. He scratched at his forehead as the two women looked at him expectantly. He couldn't bring himself to meet their eyes, however, so he stared at the table and hurriedly mumbled out the thought that had been pressing at the back of his mind.

"Wards are written in r-runes, not the Latin alph-phabet. If Latin were the b-best language, why don't we use that instead?" He kept his eyes low, waiting for their reaction, and hoping desperately that he hadn't just made a complete arse of himself.

"Habit, perhaps? A last concession to ancient Pagan practices. They may well use Latin in this time," Lady Hufflepuff replied not unkindly. She smiled at him warmly, but Sal felt his stomach shrivel in humiliation, convinced that he had just proven himself to be very stupid indeed.

"But they don't!" Lady Ravenclaw blurted out instead, and Sal felt his heart leap as he turned to look at her. She was staring at him with unabashed interest. "I had a long conversation with the runes teacher at this school, and she informed me that the Elder Futhark and Futhorc alphabets are still in use in this time, for all sorts of magic." She leant forwards again and gestured towards Sal. "You have raised an interesting point," she told him sternly, "please continue it."

Sal gulped and stared down at the table again. He felt very uncomfortable at being the focus of attention. He fidgeted with the sleeves of his shirt, feeling very out of place. He wasn't sure if he should continue speaking, but the prideful part of his mind was quietly thrilled that something that he had said had been considered interesting and important, and it very vainly wanted more of Lady Ravenclaw's praise. Besides, Lady Ravenclaw had ordered him to continue his thought, he thought to himself, and he really should follow her commands…

"Well…" he began slowly, trying to find the best way to voice his thoughts. "Magic is all about intent," Sal knew that one very well. He had learnt that lesson the hard way the first time he had tried, and failed, to cast a blood-boiling curse. He had seen what the curse could do, and his stomach had revolted even before he got the words out. His former master had been displeased. Sal had succeeded the second time; if he hadn't, there wouldn't have been another.

He forced himself to focus on the conversation at hand, and not at the demons that haunted his mind. "P-perhaps it isn't the language that matters, b-but that the spell is written down at all?" Sal asked quietly, his hands still fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, and looked up to see both women staring at him intently. He gulped, and dropped his head, hunching his shoulders. He'd said something stupid, and revealed himself for the uneducated imbecile that he truly was. Now they were going to throw him out, and, once more, Sal would only have himself to blame.

"No, please go on," Lady Hufflepuff encouraged gently. She reached an arm over the table as if to take his hand in her own, but Sal flinched away immediately. He shook his head quickly, and Lady Ravenclaw let out a sigh of exasperation.

"You cannot stop there!" she told him sternly, and he flinched again. "Continue with what you were saying!" Sal risked a quick glance at her face, but she did not look angry at him, instead she looked frustrated and a little sad. Cursing himself internally for being the cause of yet another annoyance, Sal took a deep breath and forced himself to continue, determined to get the whole thing out this time, so long as it would wipe that look from Lady Ravenclaw's face.

"If something is written d-down, it's p-permanent and the writer's th-thoughts are spread to every p-person who reads them," Sal stuttered out quickly. He had always found writing magical, and he did not know how to explain himself to the two brilliant women before him. It had been a struggle to convey quite how he felt about literacy to Hermione, who found her casual comprehension of the written word as mundane as breathing; Colin, however, had understood. Sal took a deep breath and tried to find the words he needed. "Every t-time the message is p-passed on, it is strengthened. P-perhaps writing d-down a sp-spell makes it stronger? Maybe that's why we use certain sp-spells as well, if everyone says 'wingardium leviosa' when they want t-to make an object f-float, eventually just saying the words will make it happen." There was a long moment, after Sal had finished speaking, before he dared to look up. When he finally did, both women were staring at him with wide smiles on their faces.

"That's fascinating," Lady Ravenclaw told him, leaning forwards to pin him with her bright gaze. "I had never thought of it that way before."

Lady Hufflepuff nodded, and started tapping her wand against her cheek again. "But then why is the wand movement so important? In fact, why would we even bother to use spells at all?"

Sal shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly (a terrible habit that he had picked up from Harry). "I d-don't have a wand," he muttered in embarrassment, and felt his cheeks flush, "b-but I can still d-do some magic, it's just a lot weaker."

"That's because the wand acts as a focus for one's magic," Lady Hufflepuff told him kindly. "Without a wand, it's almost impossible to channel one's internal magic into the outside world. The spells just determine what affect the magic has."

"Which only makes the question of intent and repetition even more fascinating, Helga. If the wand movement and spell are incidental and serve only to support the caster's intent then this could open up an entire new line of academic theory. One is taught magic as a series of specific spells and actions; I had never thought that they might not all be necessary, or perhaps not even universal." Lady Ravenclaw gushed with academic enthusiasm and smiled widely at Sal. Lady Hufflepuff was tapping her wand against her cheek with greater force than before and idly singed her curly blond hair with the sparks that shot from it. With a tender smile, Lady Ravenclaw gently pulled her friend's hand away from her cheek, and then she turned back to Sal. "Your theory is truly fascinating…" she began, but stopped abruptly with a blush. "You know, I don't think we ever asked your name?" She looked at Sal, cheeks bright pink with embarrassment. Lady Hufflepuff let out a small gasp, and hid her face in her hands. Sal froze, blushing himself in mortification; he should have thought to introduce himself. That was probably what a proper man would have done; and not simply insinuated himself into their conversations without giving as much as a name.

"It's Sal," he told them quietly, and stared resolutely at the table. He was endlessly glad that all of the peasantry went by a single name. He thought that he would have died from excessive mortification if they'd asked for a father's name that he did not know, and that he would have no right to claim, even if he did.

The table was silent for a long, awkward moment. Sal felt sweat bead at the back of his neck and his hands started to tremble. It was just when he was feeling too tense to stay at the table any longer, and was ready to stutter out his excuses and scurry back to Professor Snape's quarters, when heavy footsteps rang out in the quiet of the library. Sal flinched and froze, not daring to look up, as the footsteps approached them and stopped. The library was silent again for what felt like an eternity, before they were replaced by a voice that made Sal's heart skip a beat in panic.

"Helga? Rowena? What is going on here?" The gruff, low tone, of a young man just on the far side of adolescence, full of command and expectation, was painfully familiar to Sal. It was Lord Gryffindor's son, Lord Godric. Sal sat trembling in sheer terror for a long moment, before his instincts took over. He pushed back his chair and dropped to his knees, bowing as low as he could, as his master's son rounded the table and approached him.

"We were having a perfectly fascinating conversation, Godric dear. I would invite you to join us, but I'm sure there are far more pressing matters for you to attend to – I know those boars don't hunt themselves." Lady Ravenclaw's voice came out sharp and biting from far above Sal's head, and he winced at both the volume and the patronising tone. They were normally very careful to keep their voices low and quiet, in deference to the place of study, but Lady Ravenclaw's sounded far too loud. He half-hoped that the indomitable Madam Pince would storm over to tell them to be quiet, if only so that his impending humiliation would not be audible to the entire damn room.

"What are you doing with this slave?" Lord Godric's voice was equally sharp, and Sal flinched at the anger he heard there. His vision, as he stared at the floor of the library, was growing darker around the edges, and he forced himself to stay focused on the present; it would not do to panic and lose time in the presence of his master's son.

"His name is Sal," Lady Ravenclaw replied indignantly, as if that were not something that she had only learnt herself mere moments ago. "And as I said, we were having a conversation. Now do run along and leave us all alone Godric; this is a place for intelligent conversation and I do tire of repeating myself in futility."

Sal flinched violently at her words. He had no idea how she dared to speak so rudely to Lord Gryffindor's only son and heir, but then he doubted that the consequences of such behaviour were the same for respected ladies and worthless slaves. He knew, however, just who would feel the ramifications of this particular insult to the young noble's dignity. Lord Godric had never outright beaten him before (that task had always been left to others), but Sal had long ago learnt to not to expect consistency, or mercy, from his betters. Sal focused on the feeling of the cold stone against his head and reminded himself that he could take whatever pain was coming- he would have to.

"Rowena, this is unacceptable!" Lord Godric all but hissed. "Do you know what he has done, why my father had to make him a slave? He's dangerous. He could have hurt you! And you, Helga, I expected better from you than this. This is most improper." Sal flinched with every statement, and ground his forehead into the stone floor beneath him, desperately trying to keep himself in the present. There was too much noise. Everything was too loud. His head was pounding, and his lungs were so tight that he could barely breathe. This was it; he was going to die. He was going to die, and it was all because he had been stupid and prideful and had forgotten his place. Because he'd dared to dream that he might have something more than soul-crushing drudgery before him for the rest of his life. He should have known better; a long life of drudgery was a far better fate than a short trip to the noose.

"Godric, you are being ridiculous. Look at him, he's only a boy. I doubt he's look less than four winters younger than the three of us! What possible threat could he bear to us? He doesn't even have a wand," Lady Hufflepuff replied soothingly, and Sal felt a rush of gratitude flood through him. He would never have expected the ladies to stand up for him against their lord's son; ladies and slaves were alike in that regard, they all had to remain aware of who ultimately owned them.

"He could have struck you, knocked you down," Lord Godric replied mulishly, although he sounded a calmer than he had done before Lady Hufflepuff spoke. Sal had no idea what magic had soothed the other man's temper, but wanted to learn it very much.

"Him?" Lady Ravenclaw laughed with disdain. "Look at him, he's all skin and bone, he could hardly strike down a particularly underweight doxie." Sal flushed in humiliation, particularly when Lord Godric huffed out a quiet laugh. He knew he was hardly an impressive physical specimen, but it was not something he ever enjoyed having pointed out to him.

"He was just talking to us, Godric dear," Lady Hufflepuff continued. "Nothing more. He is no threat. In fact, his conversation has been very enlightening. Why not sit with us, and see for yourself?"

There was a long pause, whilst Lord Godric decided what to do; Sal didn't dare breathe as his fate was decided by the three nobles talking over his head.

"As you wish, my lady," the young lord finally replied, and Sal almost sobbed in relief.

Seconds later, heavy boots were clumping towards him. He froze and went limp as a large hand wrapped itself around his arm and yanked him to his feet.

"Stand there." Lord Godric told him sternly. Sal nodded immediately, his eyes firmly focused on his bare toes.

"No Godric," Lady Hufflepuff said quietly. "He sits at the table with us."

"What?" Lord Godric hissed, and the hand around Sal's arm tightened painfully. "He dared to sit in your presence?" Sal flinched as he was shaken harder. He tried to cringe back, but he was held fast.

"Lord Godric, you are making a scene," Lady Ravenclaw said sternly. "Release him and let him sit. If you insist on inflicting your presence upon us, you will at least attempt to behave civilly." Sal flinched again at Lady Ravenclaw's sharp tone. There was a long moment of silence, and then Sal found himself being shoved immediately into his seat. He stared at the surface of the table in shock, shoulders hunched up by his ears. Lord Godric flung himself into the chair next to him, heaving out a disapproving sigh.

"Very well then," Lord Godric intoned curtly. "If the ladies insist."

"We do," Lady Hufflepuff replied with a laugh. Sal risked a quick glance up; the small, blonde lady was staring at him with open concern. His eyes flickered up to meet her own, and she shot him a reassuring smile.

"You need not be concerned," Lady Ravenclaw drawled, eyeing the young lord with open disdain, "Lord Godric here is all bluster; he won't hurt you." Sal almost laughed at the ridiculousness of that statement. Lord Godric was his father's sole heir; he would one day own all of his father's property, Sal included. There was no way that Lord Godric would not hurt him. To think otherwise was ludicrous.

"Why are you here, Godric?" Lady Ravenclaw continued tersely, her eyes fixed on Lord Godric. She reached over and caught Lady Hufflepuff's hand in her own, linking their fingers together tightly, and smiling thinly at the young lord. "You should be outdoors on such a fine day." Sal glanced out of the window; it was tipping down with rain. "Or have you taken up poetry again?" Lady Ravenclaw continued, tone alight with malicious glee, "Helga read your last composition to me; I do believe that it moved me to tears." Lady Ravenclaw's grin was vicious as she spoke, and Lady Hufflepuff sent her a disapproving glance.

"I wished to join your research project," Lord Godric replied quietly, blushing. "My father's temper grows more intolerable the further we are confined to this time, and he to another Lord's homestead. I had hoped for some more…pleasant…company." He had been staring at Sal in open distrust up to that point, apparently ignorant of Lady Ravenclaw's vehement condemnation. But, as he spoke, his eyes flickered over to Lady Hufflepuff.

Lady Ravenclaw smiled, and Sal shivered. It was not a kind smile; it was bright and sharp, fresh from the whetstone, with the promise of blood. "And you assumed that you could assist us?" Lady Ravenclaw's laugh was as cold as the stones beneath Sal's feet.

"More so than a slave, I would assume," Lord Godric retorted sharply, and Sal flinched as the group's attention returned to him.

"That was terribly rude, Godric dear," Lady Ravenclaw replied, after a long moment. Her eyes had not left Lord Godric since the moment he sat down at the table. Lady Hufflepuff sighed and rubbed at her forehead with her free hand. "I think we should ask Sal if he would like you to join us," Lady Ravenclaw continued, her tone light and mocking. "As it was he that you so rudely insulted. What do you think, Sal?"

Sal flinched and stared at the table, as the three nobles all turned to look at him. He got the distinct impression that he was being used as a mere pawn in some longstanding power-play between Lady Ravenclaw and Lord Godric. It was not an unfamiliar position to find himself in, at the mercy of the whims of his betters, and he felt the old fury rise within him. But it was an ancient anger, and one that would not and could not get past his strongly fortified walls of self-restraint. He knew too well what the consequences for speaking his mind would be, and, even if he were capable of ignoring his own sense of self-preservation, he was still far too shaken to speak. He sensed the seconds ticking by, as he shifted nervously in his chair, and he felt altogether far too aware of everything in his surroundings. The soft scrapes as Lord Godric shifted in his chair, the flickering shadows cast by the candlelight on the table, and the ridged surface of the table beneath his shaking hands all felt far too much, far too loud for him to focus properly on his own twisting thoughts. He shook his head softly, and looked to Lady Hufflepuff, desperately hoping (as he rarely allowed himself to) that she might understand what he was trying to convey, and that she might intercede on his behalf. She met his eyes, and smiled at him sadly.

"He's terrified, Rowena," Lady Hufflepuff said quietly, and turned to look at the other two nobles. She unlaced her hand from her friend's grip, crossed her arms, and regarded both of them with a stern look. "You are being unkind again, the both of you. Rowena, stop baiting Godric. Godric, if you wish to join us, you must provide your word that you will not harm Sal for his presence here, or for anything that he may say or do whilst he is with us. You will also need to swear yourself to secrecy about our meetings here; I do not believe that this should go any further than the three of us." Sal blinked in surprise at the commanding tone that had come from the petite lady, and was impressed at the way that she held the attention of Lady Ravenclaw and Lord Godric so well. He had not expected such force to come from such a charming and unassuming young lady. "Those are my terms," she finished with a bright smile, "do you agree?"

"I don't go about beating my father's slaves for fun!" Lord Godric exclaimed noisily. "It pains me greatly that you, of all people, would see me as such a brute, Helga. Aside from which, I can clearly see who had the idea for this latest affront to convention. I can hardly punish him for something he was clearly strong-armed into by Rowena." Sal winced again and peeked at the nobles. Those words sounded very nice; if only he were able to believe them.

"Then you will have no problem making such a vow, will you, Godric?" Lady Hufflepuff asked sweetly, and Sal felt a chill run down his spine. He sensed very strongly that he would never, ever, want to cross Lady Hufflepuff.

Lord Godric gaped openly for a long moment, before he shook his head slowly, as if in shock. A slow smile crept over his face as he regarded Lady Hufflepuff with obvious affection. He let out a low chuckle and bowed his head graciously.

Lady Ravenclaw leaned over abruptly, and gently stroked Lady Hufflepuff's hair; her eyes were again fixed on Lord Godric, almost as if in challenge. There was a strange expression on her face, and Sal's mind took a moment to supply him with the proper description for such a look: jealous. Lady Ravenclaw was jealous. Sal's own eyes widened in comprehension, and he cursed himself for being a complete dullard. Suddenly so many things made sense about the two ladies. The lingering glances and touches, the effortless synchronicity and wordless communication that they had with each other, and the viciousness with which Lady Ravenclaw treated Lord Godric. Sal was an idiot. He had spent the first eight-or-so years of his life (his age was, and would always be, a mystery to him) sharing a small hovel with his mother. There had been an endless stream of both men and women in and out of their door, up until the day that she died. It wasn't as if he had ever been unaware that such relationships existed, or that he particularly cared that they did, so really he should have noticed sooner. He glanced at Lady Ravenclaw in shock. She turned to meet his gaze, and seemed startled at whatever she had read there. She dropped her hand from Lady Hufflepuff's hair so quickly that is was almost as if she had been burnt.

A short cough broke through Sal's moment of realisation, and he spun back to face his master's son in shock.

"I give my word, on my honour and my magic," Lord Godric rattled off quickly, "that I shall not needlessly harm my father's slave, Sal, or punish him for anything that he says or does in these meetings, so long as he does not attempt to hurt or harm either Lady Ravenclaw or Lady Hufflepuff. I also swear not to tell another living soul what transpires within these meetings, so long as no harm shall come to another as a consequence of my secrecy." Lord Godric looked at Lady Hufflepuff, and smiled again. "Will that do, sweet Helga?"

The vow was made quickly and assuredly, without hesitation. Sal looked at the other man, but he did not seem to have reached the same conclusions that Sal had about Lady Ravenclaw and Lady Hufflepuff. Either the other man already knew, or he was painfully unaware of the situation. Sal suspected that it was the latter.

"Is that sufficient?" Lady Hufflepuff turned to Sal and smiled at him. Sal nodded immediately, although it was only a few moments later that his thoughts finally caught up to what had been spoken, and he realised just what his master's son had promised to him. Lord Godric had all but granted Sal amnesty for anything he said or did, for as long as these research sessions lasted. The sole stipulation was that Sal would not cause harm to the ladies, which was an idea that would never have even entered into his mind. The only price for such a privilege was that Lord Godric would join their daily meetings. Sal was not at all thrilled about the other wizard intruding upon his time with the two ladies, but he was too in shock that he could essentially say or do as he pleased in the presence of his master's son to truly care. Sal was a cynic and normally prone to extreme amounts of pessimism, but even he knew what that oath had meant. Lord Godric was a man of honour, his word was his bond, and he had promised that Sal would not be harmed. Even if Sal were feeling particularly distrustful, the other wizard had sworn on his magic; that was not an oath that one could break and survive.

"I don't know why you want him here," Lord Godric stated, his brow drawn in confusion. "But I will not question your terms, Helga."

Sal felt the years-old anger flare to life, and he curled his hands into fists. It was difficult to have to swallow down the humiliation and the pain at being underestimated, or ignored, or openly disdained, time and time again. It grated on him and reminded him painfully of his subservient state. But not this time, a small and wondering thought chimed, from the back of his head. This time, he didn't have to roll over and submit like a beaten dog; he could speak up. Lord Godric had sworn on his magic that he could. The thought made Sal giddy with a strange mix of fear and awe. The part of him that remembered beatings and pain and fear, told him desperately to sit still and shut up. But the louder, more overwhelming part of his mind- the one that still remembered what it was like to be free, that cringed in self-loathing at his flinches and his fearful stutter- urged him to say something. He felt his control slipping as he felt the growing urge to push the boundaries and find out how far this new freedom really went, if it was truly there at all. Deciding that he would forever hate himself if he let even the potential for some kind of freedom slip away from him, Sal spoke up.

"P-perhaps they f-find my conversation interesting," Sal he stated quickly, before his nerves failed him. He froze and waited in blank terror for the consequences of his defiance. His mind unhelpfully reminded him that those were probably the first words that he had spoken to Lord Godric that had not been some variation of "yes", "no", or "sir". Lord Godric let out a sharp laugh, and Sal flinched.

"You're braver than I thought," the older wizard said ruefully, "I'll give you that." He smiled and cuffed Sal gently on the arm. Sal flinched, and then froze in wonder when the blow did not fall. He timidly looked up to see a considering look on the young lord's face. "I must confess to discover quite what about you has so caught the attention of these two brilliant ladies." Lord Godric smiled brightly at Lady Hufflepuff, and Sal let out a long breath in relief. He forced himself to meet the other wizard's eye and nod in reply. His hands were shaking, but he managed it, and felt inexplicably proud of himself for that one small action. Lady Hufflepuff shot him a small, gentle smile of reassurance, and Sal felt all of the energy flood from his body. It was as if someone had fed him a Sleeping Draught; all of the panic had fled from his body leaving his mind exhausted and his limbs feeling unnaturally heavy. Lady Hufflepuff's brow wrinkled in concern, and she watched him for a long moment. Nodding slowly to Sal as if she had reached some kind of conclusion, she gently touched Lord Godric's arm and rose to her feet. Both Sal and Lord Godric immediately jumped to their own in response.

"I suddenly feel very tired. Would you be so kind as to escort me back to my rooms, Godric?" Lady Hufflepuff asked quietly, putting her hand to her forehead, as if she were about to swoon. Sal thought that the gesture was a little overdone, but Lord Godric rushed to her side in concern, linking her arm in his.

"Of course, Helga my dear, all of this discord must have upset you. We shall commence our research tomorrow, if you are feeling well." He bowed a courteous farewell to Lady Ravenclaw and stared awkwardly between her and Sal; just as Lord Godric was about to say something, Lady Hufflepuff made as if to faint again, and his attention snapped back to her. Within moments, he was ushering her away towards the exit, murmuring quiet and reassuring phrases. Just before they turned the corner out of sight, Lady Hufflepuff looked over her shoulder and shot a reassuring smile at Sal and a wink at Lady Ravenclaw. Seconds later, they were gone.

Sal was left standing awkwardly next to the table, unsure if he should really be alone with Lady Ravenclaw, yet not wanting to leave her presence without a dismissal. She regarded him for a long moment, whilst he tried very hard to keep his hands from fidgeting nervously, before she gestured for him to sit.

"You have finally realised about Helga and myself," she told him bluntly, and he looked up in shock. He had not been expecting to have this conversation, at all. He nodded slowly, and she let out a long, shaky breath. "And what are you planning to do with this information?" she asked him quietly. She was obviously trying to convey the cold and aloof tone, with which she had spoken to Lord Godric, but she did not quite succeed; Sal could hear her voice catch and shake.

"I…wasn't, m'lady," he told her quietly. She blinked and stared at him in open confusion. Sal knew that look, it was the one he saw in the mirror when he had given Professor Snape every reason to beat him for being idiotic, and yet the older man had not. It was the look of shock that came when someone chose not to hurt him when they so very easily could. He hated that he had been the one to put it on her face.

"You will not inform your master?" she asked him, very quietly, and Sal froze for a long moment. He knew what she was asking. He really, really ought to inform his master that something so heretical wass going on under his roof, but Sal did not really have the inclination. Lord Gryffindor owned his body, not his mind. Sal privately thought that his master was foolish if he expected loyalty from someone that he could sell at a market, like livestock. Even the best trained dog would bite, if kicked too often. He met her eyes and shook his head.

"No, m'lady," he told her very seriously. "I will not."

She studied his face for a long moment, before giving him a short nod.

"And…you do not think we are…" she trailed off, clearly unable to say whatever word she was thinking of.

He let out a short, bitter laugh, and glanced at the table. He was amazed that she seemed so concerned about his good opinion; he was only a slave, what did it matter what he thought?

"I do not care m'lady. And I do not think any ill of either of you," he smiled self-deprecatingly and met her eyes again. "I should hardly be one to judge you, m'lady." He surprised himself by how honest he was being, and the fact that his words did not stutter once.

Her eyes widened with shock, and she tapped out a slow rhythm on the table with one long finger. "Are you…?" she asked him quietly, eyes darting from his face to the table top and back again.

Sal started at the unexpected question. "No. I don't know. I … I don't know what I am," Sal replied honestly. "It hardly matters anyway. It's not as if I'll ever marry. I'm a slave. And I don't want to father some bastard child who winds up like m…" He cut himself off, cheeks flushing bright red with embarrassment, surprised at what he had just confessed. She thankfully looked away and allowed him a moment to recover himself. He waited until he felt the blood being to fade from his cheeks before he continued. "It is not a pleasant thing, to be trapped, to be unable to be who you truly are, m'lady." Sal had not been so forward with another person in a long time, but vulnerability was a great leveller. He found that it was surprisingly easy to speak to Lady Ravenclaw when he could see her as just a fellow human in distress, as opposed to the elegant, intelligent lady he had always seen her as. She smiled at him, and it was the softest smile that he had seen on her face that had had not been directed to Lady Hufflepuff.

"Call me Rowena," she told him quietly, and he nodded his acceptance.

* * *

It was two days before spring term was due to commence, and Severus Snape was in a particularly awful mood. For once, however, it was not the anticipation of the imminent return of hundreds of over-excited students that had soured his thoughts. His day had started off abysmally, when one of his potions experiments had exploded in his face and nearly singed his eyebrows off; it had then grown substantially worse when he found Mrs Norris skulking around his office, tail dripping black and the contents of an upturned ink pot spilling all over his parchment and spitting down onto his floor. It had transformed, however, into the truly monumentally atrocious day that it was, just twenty minutes prior, when Lord Gryffindor's oaf of a servant had shown up to his quarters and demanded that Sal be returned to his master's service.

Severus had taken one look at the boy's pure-white face and had tried everything within his power to stop such a thing from happening. He had protested that he needed help to produce the headmaster's potions. That was a lie, as Severus had enough stock held under a preservation charm by that point to see the headmaster through to Easter, and had actually stopped asking for Sal to complete any specific chores back when the school had broken up for Christmas, but it was a convenient enough excuse. Dunstan's resolve, however, had remained unshakeable. Severus had then invented a dozen other pieced of busywork that he professed to need the boy to help him with, but that had not worked either. He had finally objected that Sal had not been any trouble for him, and had in fact been excessively useful. Dunstan had scoffed at that, but refrained from outright calling him a liar. Severus would not have taken that well at all, even if it weren't painfully true. Severus told Sal very firmly that he would like his help again soon. He hoped that the boy understood that he meant that he would try and get him back from his vile master as soon as he could, but Severus knew that they boy still did not completely trust him.

As soon as Sal had reached the door with slow, reluctant footsteps, Dunstan had yanked Sal harshly toward him, by his arm. Snape had called upon years of practise watching people tortured at the feet of the Dark Lord to not react and curse the man into oblivion. It was far harder than not stepping in for the muggles had been. He had clamped his lips together in a thin line, as Dunstan had turned to him, a strange look on his face. "Don't know what worth you see in the boy," he had said, as he stood in the threshold, "he's a useless scrawny little shit, but who am I to judge. If you want him again soon, I'll see what I can do. But this is the Lord's orders." He had spoken with familiarity and camaraderie, even as he dragged Sal along by the arm, and Snape had stopped breathing, for a long moment, from sheer rage. Seconds later, the door had closed behind Dunstan, and Severus had let his temper loose. He had blasted his spare chair and half of his potions ingredients into smithereens. He'd also set the spoiled parchment on fire with a vicious snarl, and hatefully watched it burn into cinders. After a couple of minutes, when all that was left of what had previously been his January lesson plans was a small pile of ashes and the lingering scent of smoke in the air, Severus had cast a reparo or two, and set his office to rights. He had then stormed straight up to the headmaster's office.

It was there that he now found himself, glaring down at the headmaster. Dumbledore was sat calmly, as always, behind his desk, peering at Severus through his damned half-moon spectacles. He had listened to Severus's account of the interaction in silence, and had waited for the younger man to rant himself to a stop before he began to speak.

"There is nothing that we can do, Severus," Dumbledore said quietly, and Severus felt his blood boil once more. He had heard a rumour, passed from Minerva to Filius to Pomona and then to him, that Potter had destroyed most of the headmaster's office after the debacle at the Ministry last summer. Severus balked at sharing anything in common with Potter's spawn, but he understood the compulsion to smash the headmaster's belongings very deeply in that moment.

"Did you not hear me correctly, Headmaster?" Severus replied coolly. "He was removed from my care on Lord Gryffindor's orders. Surely you can intercede with him on the boy's behalf?"

Dumbledore sighed deeply, and helped himself to a sherbet lemon from the desk. He had long since given up on offering Severus his muggle sweets, for which Severus was grudgingly grateful.

"I understand that you have come to care for the boy, Severus. But I am afraid that I cannot help. In fact, I believe that I may have been the cause for the young man's removal."

Severus kept his face carefully blank. "How so?" He asked.

Dumbledore sighed again, and reached up to rub the bridge of his nose with a single, gnarled finger; he looked very tired. Severus refused to feel guilty, as he was hardly underworked himself.

"Please sit down, Severus," Dumbledore told him as he ceased rubbing at his eyes, and righted his glasses. Severus sat, and waited patiently for his explanation. Dumbledore winced.

"My apologies, my boy. I know that you are concerned for the boy, and my dallying is hardly helpful." The headmaster smiled wryly at him; Severus nodded curtly, and the older man sighed. "Well then, I suppose I must begin at the heart of the issue: some discord has arisen between myself and Lord Gryffindor. These past weeks, he and his retinue have concerned themselves with the matter of returning to their own world; they have not made any substantial progress in this area." Severus grimaced; he had been expecting some form of progress to have been made. "Lord Gryffindor has instead elected to dedicate his time to discovering as much about our time as possible." Dumbledore paused for a long moment.

"You assured me that would not be a problem," Severus reminded him, "or have you changed your mind? Are we to expect countless problems now that these time-travellers have begun to truly learn about our world?" His tone was as caustic as the Scouring Solution that he'd be using on his office floor later that evening, but the headmaster did not react.

"No, Severus, I am still certain that the presence of these people will not have any effect whatsoever upon our world. It is another concern that troubles me." The headmaster sighed, and Severus raised an eyebrow, indicating for the older man to continue. "Lord Gryffindor has found out about Voldemort."

Severus studied the headmaster for a long moment. "I do not see how this causes a problem," he replied. "I have come to understand that the great Lord Gryffindor has a strong aversion to dark magic of any kind. I highly doubt that he will take the Dark Mark." Severus sneered the name of Sal's so-called master; his loathing for that man and his minions was so great it was almost tangible.

"Lord Gryffindor considers himself a powerful dark-wizard catcher," Dumbledore replied quietly. Severus paused and allowed all the implications of that statement to sink in.

"He wishes to take on the Dark Lord," Severus stated finally, and Dumbledore nodded.

"Directly. In a duel," the headmaster told him, and Severus let out a huff of bitter laughter.

"Then let him," Severus replied, completely sincerely, "he can tear himself apart trying when he experiences the Dark Lord's version of 'fair play'. At least then there would be some kind of justice reaped upon that odious man." He all but spat out the last statement, and Dumbledore regarded him with disappointment.

"That is beneath you, my boy," the headmaster replied sternly, and the tight grip that Severus had maintained on his temper collapsed.

"Beneath me? Do you have any idea how that man has been treating Sal?" Severus stood from his chair and began pacing the room. "The boy flinches at every movement I make. He's nothing more than skin and bones. He can barely string a sentence together without stuttering in terror, and I know that he can do so. I had to dose the boy with Calming Draught to bring him out of a panic attack and when he was still half-delirious from the solution, he was incredibly sarcastic towards me. He didn't stutter once. I know for a fact that he doesn't remember that, or I think he'd have fainted the moment he saw me, the next day." Severus had been growing louder and louder when he spoke, so that his last few words were all but shouted at the headmaster.

Dumbledore's face had grown chalk white, and his eyes held a quiet fury. Severus refrained from scoffing. The headmaster could feel all the righteous indignation that he liked; they both knew that he would not do anything about the situation, not when it would hinder the Greater Good. It was one of the greatest issues that Severus had with the older man. "It is that bad?" Dumbledore asked quietly, and this time Severus could not hold back his scoff.

"Bad? The boy has one pair of clothing, and walks around barefoot. I offered to buy him new clothes and he hid in his room for hours afterwards." Severus spat, taking a sadistic delight in the way that his words were clearly affecting the headmaster. "He's incredibly intelligent, he's picking up theory at a rate that is terrifying to behold, and yet he cannot read and write. He has panic attacks every other day and he's lifted his head so rarely that I couldn't even tell you the colour of his eyes, and I've been sharing my quarters with the boy!" There was more, so much more that he could say, but he doubted that it would do Sal any good. Dumbledore's face had assumed that regretful frown that meant he was going to do something that Severus wouldn't like, but that he would feel very bad about it afterwards.

"I am sorry then, my boy," Dumbledore began, "but I believe that I have only made things worse for him." He sighed and stared down at his hands. "I have refused to allow Lord Gryffindor to seek out Voldemort in an open duel. I cannot condone sending a man to his death, when I know the truth of the prophecy." The headmaster looked up to meet Severus's eyes. "I believe that he has revoked the use of his slave as a means of retaliation." Dumbledore's eyes flashed bright blue, and his tone grew much more biting. "A petty gesture, perhaps, but I sense that Lord Gryffindor is a man that is used to getting his own way. I believe that he feels it is his religious duty to rid the world of dark magic and all its users." Severus raised his eyebrows at that; zealotry of any sort had long since turned his stomach, and there were countless witches and wizards who dabbled in a bit of petty dark magic. Severus wondered just how many would be condemned by Lord Gryffindor's exacting standards.

"So this is petty revenge?" Severus spat back in annoyance. "And you will not challenge him." It was not a question; he knew that the headmaster had long since made his decision.

"I am sorry, my boy."

"He does not even have a wand, Albus," Severus shot back. He was still disgusted by that particular abuse. He could not imagine life without his wand, living like a muggle when there was a world of possibly just out of reach. He frowned in irritation and addressed the headmaster again. "His master won't even let him use his magic."

Dumbledore did not reply. He sat silently, his eyes shadowed and distant. After a long moment, he spoke. His voice was hesitant, and it crackled as he spoke, betraying both his age and the ravaging effects that the curse was enacting upon his body. "That may be for the best," Dumbledore said slowly. "We do not need another Dark Lord to contend with, my boy. We must not forget who this child will become. We ought not to arm him prematurely."

Severus stared at the man who had rescued him from a life sentence in Azkaban, who had thought the best of him time and time again, no matter how copious the reasons that Severus had provided to the contrary, and did not recognise him. The Albus Dumbledore sat in front of him looked old and tired, and far too unforgiving for a man who had always advocated forgiveness above all.

"He's a child," Severus said slowly, "a terrified child who is so desperate for affection and approval that he looks to me for such things." Severus met the headmaster's eyes. "He is not about to become a dark lord!"

"You may well be right," Dumbledore told him quietly. "But if he is not? Lord Gryffindor has informed me that Sal trained under a dark wizard for a number of years. He is no stranger to dark magic, my boy. Can the world survive two dark lords? I am dying, Severus, and when I am gone, the outcome of this war will fall on young Harry's shoulders. I will not increase his burdens needlessly, not when those he carries are already so great."

"So you will do nothing?" Severus asked quietly. "I had thought, perhaps, that you would sympathise. The boy made a terrible decision in his youth, yes, but he was, and still is, a child. He found an approach to magic, an ideology, that he thought would help him, only to find out it was fickle and full of false promises." Severus forced himself to keep his mind away from the bitter memories of his early years as a Death Eater, when wielding power and inflicting fear had made him feel superior, made him feel like he belonged, before a half-heard prophecy and a terrible mistake had sent it all crumbling down around his heels. Dumbledore had gone very white indeed, and reached over to touch the blackened skin of his cursed arm.

The headmaster did not answer him, but he did not need to. Severus knew that, yet again, nothing would be done. He concluded that he must find a way, again, to help the boy on his own. He stood swiftly from his chair and swept out of the office, slamming the door behind him. He left Dumbledore still sat at his desk, alone with only his thoughts and the stirrings of faint, mournful notes of Phoenix song.

* * *

Harry had been back at Hogwarts for less than a day, and he was already making a total arse of himself in public. He was standing awkwardly in the Advanced Arithmancy section of the library, map clutched in his left hand, and an Extendable Ear in his right. He had been waiting for an opportunity to check up on Sal ever since he got back to the castle, and had finally found a spare minute to track him down in the library. Ron had told him that the Sal would be fine, but Harry had to make sure for himself. Christmas could be a very bad time; Harry knew that. There was too much expenditure, too much alcohol, and too much emotion. He needed to make sure that Sal was okay. He also wanted to see how Sal had been getting on living with Snape. When the other boy had first told him that he was going to live and study with the grumpy former potions master, Harry had felt nauseous at the thought. His own experience of private lessons with Snape had left him exhausted, with a splitting headache, feeling as if his mind had been torn to shreds. He doubted that Sal's basic magic lessons would have been quite so intense, but he would not put anything past Snape.

Harry also felt rather guilty, as he had barely thought about the other boy since the disaster that was Slughorn's Christmas party. His thoughts had been too occupied with whatever Malfoy was up to, and then he had been swept up in the madness that was Christmas at the Burrow. He had been feeling distracted when Percy and the Minister showed up and then quickly departed in a huff on Christmas day, and he had barely spared a thought to the time-travellers still at Hogwarts for the rest of the holidays. Harry reminded himself that he should know better, and that he was the one who had told the others that they needed to keep an eye on Sal. He had spent the first morning back nervously praying that Sal would be alright, with a fervour that matched Ron's yearly ritualistic end-of-season pleas that the Cannons wouldn't finish last for once. So when he finally got a spare minute, he had grabbed the map to search for Sal. He had spotted that single, short name entering the library, and had rushed off to intercept it, with a hastily muttered "Mischief managed". Harry had bounded into the deserted corner of the library, expecting the other boy to be alone, and had been forced to quickly duck behind a bookcase when he saw that Sal was not.

Harry had not wanted to intrude on the conversation, as he had no idea what that might mean for Sal, and had cursed himself for not checking the map properly before leaving the common room. He had therefore reconciled himself to waiting, wandering aimlessly amongst the tall shelves until Sal had a free minute. Harry was loitering, he knew that, but his curiosity was nagging at him, and he really wanted to know who Sal was talking to, and what about. He had been attempting to look inconspicuous, pretending to be interested in 'Numerology: first principles of the astral plane' for over five minutes, and had received some very odd looks from Terry Boot for his efforts. When the Ravenclaw had finally finished selecting his books from the shelves, and stumbled off to a table, wand clasped between his teeth and arms stacked high with dusty tomes, Harry was finally left alone. He carefully situated himself at the edge of the shelf, and peered round the corner. Sal was sat at a table with Lord Godric Gryffindor and two ladies whom Harry had not yet seen. He frowned and examined Sal carefully. He was sat listening to the thin brown-haired woman talk at an exceptionally fast speed, with a small half-smile on his face. He didn't seem tense or nervous around Gryffindor, but Harry knew well enough that it was easy to plaster on a fake, polite smile when necessary.

The woman finished speaking and the other, blonde woman laughed loudly at whatever she had said. Sal turned his head to acknowledge her, and Harry caught sight of a deep purple bruise on the side of his face. His stomach dropped to his feet, and he forced himself to quash down the instinctive rage that rose within him. He looked Sal over once again; the other boy seemed to be holding himself very stiffly, as if something had happened to his ribs. Harry's wand was in his hand before his brain had fully processed his rage. He was just about to step out and curse the lot of them, when Sal's face broke in to a wide grin, pulling him up short. It was a fleeting expression, and gone almost as soon as it was there, but it made Harry stop and reassess the situation. He had perhaps jumped to conclusions.

Fidgeting with the Extendable Ear in his palm, Harry weighed up his conscience against his curiosity. Seconds later, he placed the listening device in his ear and started as the voices came through loud and clear. Harry knew that this was eavesdropping, and that he really shouldn't be doing it, but he couldn't help himself. He felt like he had a responsibility to Sal, and he couldn't help anyone if he didn't know exactly what was going on. His mind bitterly reminded him of the summer before fifth year and the agony that had been not knowing what Voldemort was up to, not knowing whether or not that madman had been seconds away from murdering another person that Harry cared about. He shook his head and reminded himself that it was all for the cause of helping Sal. Besides, most of the things that Harry had learnt in his life had been through eavesdropping, through listening in on conversations and watching the lives of others to study how to copy and mirror their actions. Tying his shoelaces had come from watching Aunt Petunia patiently teach Dudley in the front hall, as had putting on gloves in winter, and sun cream in summer. He'd learnt how to judge the moods of others through half-distorted conversations and the pounding of heavy feet overheard through the door to the cupboard under the stairs. Finally, and most recently, he'd learnt what a genuinely loving family looked like, by watching the Weasleys. Harry was very good at following an example. When asking questions was out of the question, Harry thought wryly to himself, one had to find other ways to figure stuff out. Not that his method didn't have its flaws; he'd gone for seven years of his life thinking Timbuktu was a mythical place, before someone had shoved an atlas in his face. But then again, he'd also gone eleven years thinking that magic didn't exist…

Harry shook himself forcibly out of his thoughts, and tuned into the conversation that was pouring into his ear.

"I just don't understand it!" the brown-haired witch was complaining. "It doesn't make any sense!" She looked over at the blond-haired woman, who patted her arm sympathetically. Harry sensed that this was a common theme of conversation by the way that Gryffindor rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"There, there, Rowena," the shorter witch replied. "You'll figure it out in no time. You always do."

Harry whacked his head painfully on the bookcase, as he reared back in surprise. She had just said "Ravenclaw". That was just fucking insane. He cursed quietly, rubbing at the lump that was already forming on the back of his head. That lady, he thought with a slight edge of hysteria, was Rowena Ravenclaw, which could only make the other one…

"No, Helga", Ravenclaw replied. Harry let out a quiet breath, his suspicions confirmed. He didn't know why he was so shocked; he'd known that the Founders were at Hogwarts, but somewhere between their arrival and that particular moment, he kind of had just accepted it. He suspected that the fact that no one had seen hide nor hair of them since they'd arrived had helped him just push them to the back of his mind. Some part of him had reconciled the idea that the Founders were there, just that they were out of sight, but it was incredibly shocking to be confronted with the reality of flesh and blood people before him. He blinked, shaking his head, and took a deep breath, tuning back in to the conversation.

"…think, there's no way we could have moved forwards so far in time!" Ravenclaw was leaning forwards, glaring at Godric Gryffindor, who looked incredibly awkward. "It doesn't follow any of the theories from our own or this time in regards to time travel. It just shouldn't have happened. I don't understand it." Harry gulped at the thought of that, and tried not to think how strange it was to hear the mythical Rowena Ravenclaw profess ignorance of something.

"Could something have interfered with your spell?" Hufflepuff asked thoughtfully. She was tapping her wand against her cheek, an intense look on her face.

"Perhaps another force? Something from this time?" Harry was shocked to hear Sal speak up, and doubly surprised to hear the boy speak without his stutter. As far as Harry had observed, he only did that when he was comfortable around people, such as in their reading lessons. It had also taken several sessions for Sal to reach that level of security and trust with Harry, Hermione, Colin, and Ginny, and he wondered just how frequently Sal had been meeting with the three founders. His suspicions only grew when Ravenclaw turned to Sal with a wry grin, and spoke to him very familiarly.

"I thought of that, but the sheer amount of magic that it would take to move so many of us so far through time is inconceivable. Unless time itself ran wild and crashed into my spell, there is no reasonable way this could have happened."

"Or we are at the whim of Providence, and it was the interference of the Almighty himself." Lord Godric pointed out with a grin.

"I thought you said 'reasonable'," Sal remarked to Ravenclaw, under his breath. Harry's breath caught, but Gryffindor did not seem to have noticed that Sal had spoken. Ravenclaw, however, shot him an amused smirk in return. She let out a loud, irritated sigh and turned to regard Gryffindor with a stern expression.

"Do not look for the divine in the profane, Godric. This is all my doing, and I intend to find out just what I have done." Ravenclaw told Gryffindor firmly. Gryffindor nodded curtly, and shifted slightly in his seat. He looked very much like a scolded child, and Harry's errant imagination immediately threw up an image of a red-faced Gryffindor sat in detention with McGonagall. He nearly laughed out loud, but stopped himself at the last minute. He continued to listen in as the conversation moved away to some teasing remarks about Gryffindor and poetry. Harry watched them all talking with a grin on his face. It was so bizarre to see the Founders sat causally in the library, taking the piss out of each other, like he and his friends did all the time. He was also pleased to note that Sal seemed genuinely happy amongst them, which was great, because Harry would have been properly pissed off to find that the school's Founders were bastards. Well, the three that mattered, and who didn't go round stuffing giant killer snakes into the piping, anyway.

The conversation moved onto some point about casting spells in different languages, which went straight over Harry's head, but he was pleased to see that Sal seemed genuinely engaged in the discussion, and was contributing quiet observations every now and then with a strange gleam in his eyes. Harry knew that look; it was the look of sheer surprise and awe he had always worn before Hogwarts, whenever anyone included him in a game of tag, a shared secret, in something, in anything, just for once.

Harry put the Extendable Ear away, satisfied that Sal was okay and sensing that the other boy would be occupied for a while. He paused for a moment, watching the Founders sat in the middle of the Hogwarts library, and felt a strange tingle trip its way down his spine. The sheer passion in their academic discussion, and the respect with which they all spoke to one another was incredible. Looking at the four of them together, he could see why they would want to open a school. He could see how they could one day build an institution what was the closest thing to a home that Harry had ever known. Harry smiled to himself and turned to head back to the common room, when that last train of thought brought him up sharply. He'd just thought of the Founders as 'the four of them'. That didn't make any sense, unless… He whipped back around to stare at the group for a long moment, and then closed his eyes in abject humiliation.

He turned and thwacked his forehead against the heavy wood of the bookshelf next to him, and bit back a groan at his own unrelenting stupidity. Harry ground his brow further into the shelf, using the pain to push back the rising swell of mortification, as his brain rushed at an unforgiving pace, reassessing conversation after conversation and image after image. It all made sense: why he had appeared with the Founders, why Snape and Malfoy were so interested in him; the slave boy from the kitchens was Salazar Slytherin. Harry groaned quietly to himself again. His name was fucking Sal, for fuck's sake. How had he not seen that?

Then, through the deep rush of embarrassment, came an icy thrill of dread. If Sal was really Slytherin himself, then what did that mean? Had all of this been an act? Wasn't Slytherin meant to be a pureblood prick just like Malfoy? Had he been playing Harry and his friends all along? Had he only been pretending to be weak and vulnerable in order to get closer to them? Harry's temper flared and he squashed down the cold kernel of betrayal that grew in his chest. Sal, no - that would be Salazar - had probably been off with Malfoy having a great laugh at them all. They had probably spent hours in the dungeons with Snape having a right laugh at how easy it was to get the stupid, noble Gryffindors to trust him. Harry frowned and tried to think objectively. It was no use letting his hurt feelings cloud his judgement. For all he knew, he could have simply jumped to conclusions. There was a deep certainty at the back of his mind, however, that told him that he was right.

Harry took a deep breath, and spun on his heel. He shoved the map deep into his pocket and stormed out of the library. He needed to talk to Ron and Hermione.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi Guys, here's the next chapter.
> 
>  
> 
> TWs this chapter for physical/psychological abuse, as well as mentions of prostitution.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Harry rushed back to the common room, mind whirring with the revelation of Sal’s identity. He felt sick; his stomach was churning almost as badly as it had when he’d learnt that Death Eater had been masquerading as Mad-Eye Moody. He tried not to draw the comparison, to remind himself that he didn’t have all of the facts and that he often let his imagination run a bit wild, but he couldn’t help himself. At the end of the day, Slytherin was a Dark Wizard, and truly evil; Harry couldn’t just ignore that fact because he’d let himself fall for a sob story, because he’d seen something of himself in the fellow green-eyed, miserable-looking teenager… Merlin, he swore emphatically to himself; he’d been so easily manipulated. 

He finally reached the portrait of the Fat Lady and all but hissed the password at her. She gave him a very affronted look, but seemed to get that he wasn’t in the mood for a lecture on manners, and so let him into the common room with only a quiet tut. Harry looked around the room, and spotted Hermione reading in the corner. His churning mind relaxed in relief; Hermione would be able to help him. She was good at looking at things logically. He was just about to make his way over to her, when Ginny and Colin called over to him. He cursed quietly; he had not noticed them coming through the portrait behind him. He must have missed them completely on his way up to the tower. 

“Harry…” Colin wheezed, bending over double and gulping down deep breaths. “We’ve been trying… catch up… with you… need… to talk.”

Ginny smiled sympathetically, and patted Colin consolingly on the shoulder. 

“You were walking like you had a Dementor on your tail, Harry,” she told him with a concerned look. “Is everything alright?”

Harry looked at the two of them for a moment. He contemplated keeping his concerns about Sal to himself, but he’d learnt that lesson last year. People got hurt when he kept things to himself.

“No, it’s not.” He told them finally, ignoring their apprehensive faces, as he started walking over to Hermione. “Come on, I’ll fill you all in together.”

In all fairness, they took the news far better than Harry had anticipated. Ginny and Hermione went very white, and shared a long, concerned look. Colin squeaked loudly, and then flushed bright red with embarrassment. Harry leant slowly back in his chair, glancing around the room to see if anyone was paying a bit too much attention to them. He had, of course, cast a  _ Muffliato _ , but he thought it was better to err on the side of caution. 

Hermione and Ginny seemed to be having a silent conversation through their eyes. Ginny shook her head emphatically, but Hermione rolled her eyes and took a deep breath, turning to Harry. 

“So you think that Sal is really Salazar Slytherin?” She asked quietly; Harry nodded tightly. “Are you sure?” Harry nodded again, this time a bit more forcefully. If the others weren’t going to believe him…

“I saw him with the other Founders, in the library, and it was just so obvious.” Harry noticed how Hermione looked rather taken aback by that. He wasn’t sure if it was the thought that Harry had been in the library without her, or that the Founders had just been casually hanging out there, and that she hadn’t seen them. Knowing Hermione, Harry thought, it was probably both. He noticed that the others were all looking at him very intently. “It’s not just that…” he rushed to explain. “It’s loads of things: he’s been hanging around Malfoy and Snape, his name’s Sal, and he’s been getting in close with all of us. He’s been fooling us all for weeks.”

Hermione looked at him a little nervously. “It’s not that we don’t believe you Harry,” she told him quietly. “But you have to see that that isn’t very much evidence to support such a huge leap…” Harry bristled, but Hermione continued on forcefully, cutting him off before he could speak. “It’s just…you’ve been suspicious of Malfoy all year.” Harry huffed in irritation; he knew Malfoy was up to something, and he didn’t know how  _ Slytherin _ fit into it just yet, but he had a few ideas. “Not everyone’s out to get you, Harry.” Hermione finished quietly, and hesitantly put her hand over his clenched fist. It was meant to be a gesture of consolation, but it just wound Harry up. He let out a deep sigh of frustration; he didn’t know how the others failed to see what was just so obvious to him. Besides, he had every right to be paranoid; he had fucking Voldemort after his head, and now he was stuck in a castle with Slytherin, the wizard Voldemort  _ aspired _ to be as bad as. 

“If I’m right, Hermione,” Harry told her seriously, “this is the man who believes all Muggle-borns should be killed. Who left a basilisk in the school to finish the job, when he got kicked out! Who knows what he’s really here for?” Hermione stilled and looked sick; Harry doubted that she’d thought about that.

“We could check,” Ginny suggested calmly, although her fists were clenched on the table, knuckles white. “If he’s really Slytherin, I mean.” Colin looked at her in concern, and Harry had to shove down the sharp stab of envy that flared in his chest. He had bigger things to worry about. 

“How?” Hermione asked quietly, forcing Harry’s eyes away from Ginny’s drawn expression. 

“If he’s really Slytherin, he’ll speak Parseltongue. ” Her voice was quiet and sure, said with the same certainty with which she’d accosted Harry for worrying about being possessed by Voldemort the year before. Harry flushed, and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck; he often forgot that Ginny had almost as much reason to fear the wizard who left a basilisk in the school as he did. 

“We just need to get him to speak it.” Harry agreed quietly. “I can say something to him next time we meet in the Room of Requirement. We might need to conjure a snake, though.”

“Can’t he pretend not to understand you?” Colin asked nervously, looking at Harry with wide eyes. 

“I can never tell the difference between Parseltongue and just normal talking,” Harry admitted quietly. “I don’t think Voldemort can either.” Colin flinched fiercely at the name, and Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “He’ll just answer me normally.”

“He might not be able to,” Hermione cut in quietly. Harry shot her a look, eyebrows raised; she sighed, and rushed to explain. “I’ve been doing some research into life debts; apparently the terms of them can be really strict. Didn’t he say his master had forbidden him to do any magic? Parseltongue is a magic language- he might not be able to speak it. Even if he can, that doesn't necessarily prove that he is Slytherin; you're a Parselmouth too, Harry. ” 

They all shared a look of concern. Harry thought that it would be just his luck that he alone in the whole damn castle would have the one obscure skill that could prove that Sal was really Slytherin, and it might not even help. There was a certain irony that Slytherin, of all people, might have lost his ability to speak to snakes. But Harry found that he couldn’t laugh at the situation, he was far more concerned that he would have no way to prove his suspicions correct. He needed to know for certain. 

“Well we have to try.” He said quietly, and the other three all turned to look at him expectantly. “Besides,” he shrugged, “if I’m right, who knows what else he’s been lying about. He might only be pretending to be a slave, to get our sympathy, to get close to us.” Ginny looked slightly sick at that suggestion, but she bent her head to the matter at hand, and soon they had devised a plan to catch Slytherin. 

A day later (Harry couldn’t wait any longer), they were all up in the Room of Requirement and sweating nervously. Colin was running through a few reading exercises in one of Hermione’s books (a version of Beowulf in both modern and old English), proving his courage by managing to speak with only the slightest hint of a shake to his voice. Harry was trying his best not to glare daggers at Slytherin’s back, but was not sure that he was particularly successful. The other’s boy’s shoulders were very tense, and he kept sneaking glances from the corner of his eye, in Harry’s direction. Harry forced himself not to feel guilty, knowing that this was all part of an act; he instead channelled his discomfort into anger. If he didn’t prove that Sal was Slytherin, and find out what he was up to, who knew what he could get up to? Harry would not allow Slytherin or any of the Pureblood fanatics that he’d influenced over the years to hurt him or his friends again. Not after Sirius. He wouldn’t be fooled again. 

It had not taken much to get Slytherin to meet them that evening, which Harry thought was a sign of overconfidence from the other boy. Harry had caught him as he was leaving the library earlier in the afternoon. He had been following Gryffindor, a couple of steps behind, but had jumped and the gone still when Harry had reached out to grab him by the arm. Harry had barely had time to whisper “Tonight. Seven o’clock?” as Slytherin darted nervous glances between him and the retreating figure of Gryffindor. He had nodded very quickly, before tearing his arm from Harry’s grasp and rushing to catch up with Gryffindor, as the other man rounded the corner. Harry had not been certain what to make of the exchange; Sal - no,  _ Slytherin _ \- had looked scared. 

Harry’s conscience had prickled at him all the way through dinner, and he had been feeling less certain about his initial conclusions. He must have looked pretty pathetic, lost in his thought, because Ron had dragged himself away from Lavender’s face for long enough to pull him aside and ask if he was okay. Harry had been startled; he had forgotten to tell Ron about the latest development in the Founders situation. He assumed that he had grown so used to Ron and Hermione simply being there, over the years. Now that Hermione refused to be in the same room as Ron for anything other than lessons, it was hard to remember who had been told what, and when. The loss had hit Harry like a bludger to the stomach, and quelled the embarrassment that he felt at having forgotten Ron, as he quickly updated his best friend on his revelation about Slytherin. Ron had shared Harry’s shock at the revelation, but encouraged Harry to go through with the plan. He had wanted to come along, but he'd landed himself in detention with Filch all week for selling some of Fred and George’s products to the first years. But Ron had encouraged him to go ahead with the plan as soon as possible; his exact words had been “it won’t hurt to check, mate.” It had been enough to reassure Harry that he was right to be suspicious. It was better to be safe than sorry, after all. 

Harry shook himself, and turned his attention back to Colin’s lesson. He was telling Slytherin that he was coming along in leaps and bounds. Harry seethed in anger; of course the other boy was advancing quickly, he could probably already read. This was just one more thing that he’d lied to them about, wasting their time, so that he could get close to them all. He clenched his teeth tightly, and pointedly ignored Sal’s flinch. Deciding that he had had enough of the farce, he sent a quick nod to Hermione, who got up and silently conjured a small grass snake in the corner of the room. Ginny flinched, and drew her wand, just in case. The snake hissed, muttering in irritation about wizards and perfectly good naps, as it slithered towards the warmth of the fireplace. Sal flinched again, but pointedly kept his eyes down at the table, which was full of Colin’s notes. Harry’s eyes narrowed. He stared at the snake, and willed his word to come out as Parseltongue. 

“ _ You okay, Sal _ ?” Harry asked quietly. Hermione nodded to him, and vanished the snake. The plan was working, so far. Slytherin’s head snapped up to Harry. 

“ _ You…speak _ ?” He asked Harry quietly, and looked nervously at Hermione and Colin. They gasped, and Slytherin flinched, but kept his eyes very focused on Harry. Harry took a deep breath, his heart somewhere around his feet. That proved that, then. Sal was indeed a Parselmouth, which meant Harry was right: Sal was Slytherin. 

Harry nodded to Colin, and the other boy started to quickly gather up his notes. Hermione came to stand over by Harry, wringing her hands nervously; Ginny stayed put on the sofa, wand drawn. Sal was starting to look more and more nervous. He stood, and started backing towards the door. Good, Harry thought, let him think twice about messing with us again. 

“We know who you are,  _ Slytherin _ ,” Harry seethed, spitting the name with so much venom, he wasn’t entirely certain that he hadn’t spoken in Parseltongue again. The other boy flinched and looked confused. Harry pressed on, enraged. “We know the kind of wizard you really are! You think you’ve got everyone fooled, but we can see through you.” Slytherin flinched again, and the blood drained from his face. He kept moving cautiously away from Harry, eyes flickering from Harry’s face to Ginny’s wand. “I don’t know what you want, or what you’re up to, but you’re going to stay away from us.” Harry noted that the boy had edged almost to the door, and was nodding emphatically, eyes huge. “You try and hurt anyone,” Harry promised him quietly, “I will stop you.” Slytherin didn’t say a word; instead, he backed out of the room so quickly it was almost as if he had Disapparated. 

The room was quiet for a long moment. Harry slowly calmed his breathing, which had grown more erratic with his temper, and noticed that he’d drawn his wand. Quickly shoving it into his back pocket, Harry shook out his hand. He had been clenching it so tightly, he was surprised his hand wasn’t cramping.  Hermione slowly walked up to him, and put a hand on his shoulder. 

“We did the right thing,” she said quietly; Harry slowly nodded his head, fury still colouring his thoughts red and raging. Later on, when he was lying in bed, plagued with memories of Harry-hunting and his Uncle’s purple, furious face, interspersed with Slytherin’s tense, frightened expression, as he backed out of the room in fear, Harry was not sure that they’d done the right thing, at all.

* * *

 

The weeks following the New Year had not treated Sal well, at all. He had been ordered back to his master’s service, just when he had started to relax in Professor Snape’s presence. It wasn’t that Sal had minded being put to work again - if anything he was glad to have something useful to do - but he would far rather have been working for the professor. He missed the older man’s lessons, and the quiet, steady acceptance with which he had taught Sal. Back in his master’s service, Sal was once again treated with less care than one would give to a common animal, and with far less regard. He was also bored. Embarrassingly so. He had grown embarrassingly used to stretching his mind to its limits, to learning as much as he could in whatever time he had available to him, and he was feeling the loss intensely.

His mood had not been improved, either, by the abrupt dismissal he had been handed by Harry and his friends. But, Sal reminded himself, he only had himself to blame for that. He should have known better than to reveal that he spoke the tongue of serpents. It was magic of the devil, a sign of the darkest, most corrupted soul. After all, it was a serpent that had tempted Eve with forbidden knowledge. Sal had been astonished to hear Harry, of all people, speak that damned language, and he had let his guard down. He had thought that that meant that Harry could be trusted, that he wouldn’t judge Sal for the darkness, the evil that tainted his blood and his magic. Professor Snape hadn’t. But, of course, such a thought was sheer foolishness. Sal should have known better; he had grown complacent, had trusted too easily. Once again. There could be plenty of reasons that Harry possessed that talent; Sal shouldn’t have assumed a kinship so easily, not when Harry had shown himself to be the furthest thing from  _ dark _ that Sal had known in his life.

So he couldn’t blame Harry and the others for casting him away from them, not when he had just proven to them how dangerous he truly was. He couldn’t blame them for betraying his trust, not when he had given it so casually, and when they had every reason to be scared of him. It was obvious that the others had set him up, conjuring a snake to catch him out; they had already known of Sal’s cursed ability. Dunstan must have been announcing it all over the school, warning all the children to stay away from the evil slave child. At least no one had started making signs of the cross whenever he crossed the path, as had happened the first time his talent was discovered. It had been during the harvest before last, and one of the field hands had caught him persuading an adder not to bite him for spearing it with a pitchfork. He had been dragged straight before his master and Lord Gryffindor had ordered his men to flog the evil out of Sal. Sal had been in bed for a solid week afterwards, the fever bringing him dangerously close to the point of death. The beating hadn’t worked; he could still speak to the creatures of the devil. Lord Gryffindor had been quick to explain what that meant for Sal’s immortal soul. 

Despite understanding why he couldn’t continue them, without Professor Snape’s lessons on magic and Colin’s on reading, Sal felt like his mind was too big for his head. He had spent so long in mindless drudgery, only to have been able to think again, to allow his mind to focus on more than the present moment, the next task or chore, or the next beating. Ever since Dunstan had appeared to drag him back to his master’s quarters, Sal had been more bored than he could ever remember being. He had too many thoughts, and nowhere to channel them. Worse than that, he found himself chafing more and more at the limits that were placed upon him by his state of servitude. He felt himself grow even more resentful and hateful, as he was forced to spend hours stood in a corner, holding a jug of wine, and waiting for the signal to refill his master’s goblet. It was tedious, and it allowed him far too much time to think about what might have been. Too much time to dwell on his burning envy of the students of the castle, running to and fro from their lessons, oblivious to how fucking lucky they were to have such freedom. 

The first night that he had been back in his master’s presence, he had been inattentive, mind far away in the dungeons with Professor Snape, and had almost missed his master’s cue. He had been forced to run to his master’s side, the heavy wine jug trembling in his hands. Dunstan had beaten him properly for that slip. But as the days drew monotonously on, even the memory of a boot in his ribs and pain from the still-healing scars on his back had not been sufficient to keep Sal’s mind focused properly on his tasks. He had earnt any number of slaps and curses for his clumsiness, and his laziness, but he had started to find it harder and harder to care. Some part of his mind acknowledged that it was not a good thing that he was becoming so apathetic to himself and his own wellbeing, but it was crushed down by the overwhelming sense of emptiness that was plaguing him day after day. A thick fog was creeping slowly over his mind, obscuring his emotions and making his frantic thoughts grow more and more sluggish. This was not the first time that Sal had been visited by such a curse; the terrible apathy came and went, creeping up on him when he least expected it, and left him feeling like an empty vase, hollow and devoid of purpose. It had not grown so bad yet that he was unable to pull himself from his bed in the mornings, but Sal suspected that it was only a matter of time. He couldn’t bring himself to be concerned about that, either. 

It was only the daily meetings with Lord Godric and the ladies that were keeping him from going out of his mind. He looked forward to the meetings, invigorating himself with the hour or so of intelligent conversation, grasping for the brief moments of joy like a drowning man gulping for oxygen. He had not been certain how he was going to continue the meetings once he was back in his master’s service, as he had been all but confined to his master’s quarters and given explicit instructions not to associate with any of the other residents of the castle, but he had been rescued by Lord Godric, of all people. It was the first day after Sal had been dragged back to his master by Dunstan. The young lord-to-be had had half a foot out of the door, on his way to meet the ladies, when he had spotted Sal stood in the corner. Something in Sal’s expression must have encouraged the other man to mercy, as he had asked his father for the loan of his slave for the evening. Lord Gryffindor had acquiesced with barely a nod, and Sal had been granted his reprieve for the evening. 

“Thank you,” Sal had told Lord Godric quietly, as they made their way up to the library. His back had still been stinging fiercely, and the quick pace that the young lord set was not helping his still-healing cuts, but he had been so grateful to be free of the stifling room and its odious inhabitants, that he hadn’t even cared. Lord Godric had shot him a look of surprise, which turned to concern, as he slowed his pace noticeably. 

“Keeping to close quarters is not good for my father’s temper,” he had admitted quietly, into the awkward silence. “It was only some wine,” he had continued, referencing the incident with Sal’s slow response the day before. “You should not have been whipped for that.”

Sal had nearly stopped in surprise, but caught himself at the last moment. He had stared at the young lord’s back in incomprehension, as they continued on their way. Lord Godric had not said anything else, until they had reached the library and greeted the ladies. Sal had felt a strange warmth gathering in his chest towards the young lord, and had even dared to joke a little in his presence. Neither of them spoke about the moment that they had shared again, but something between them had altered infinitesimally after that night.

From that day, Lord Godric had requested use of Sal whenever he went to the library. Of course, he hadn’t stepped in when Sal had been punished for disappearing off to meet Harry and the others; but Sal had deserved that beating, and he’d anticipated it from the moment he’d agreed to meet with Harry. Thankfully, that brief indiscretion hadn’t stopped Lord Godric from bringing him to meet with the ladies, and Sal didn’t think it was just because Lord Godric was terrified of Rowena’s sharp tongue, and Lady Hufflepuff’s quiet disapproval. Meeting in the library had swiftly become the highlight of Sal’s day, and quite frankly, it was now the only thing keeping him going. Lord Godric had been right, his master’s temper was growing shorter day by day, and it was Sal who was feeling the consequences.  It seemed that Lord Gryffindor and Dumbledore had come to some sort of disagreement and, as he was trapped in another time and so unable to storm out of the castle in anger, Lord Gryffindor had instead confined himself and his household to their quarters in retaliation. Sal would have found such behaviour amusing, had it not been for the fact that he was a pawn in his master’s pettiness.

Sal sighed, forcing back the memories of the past few weeks, and shuffled slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position to stand in. It was nearing the end of January, and he was, once again, stood in the corner, holding on to a jug of wine. It seemed that all he ever did anymore was pour wine; Sal suspected that it was just some arbitrary task to keep him busy and out of the hands out Dumbledore and his staff, but it was very dull. His master was pacing up and down in front of him, and talking with Dunstan, growing increasingly irate. Sal knew he should be feeling nervous at the look in Dunstan’s eye; it held the promise of violence. But instead he only felt a vague sense of annoyance at the nuisance that would be another set of bruises, following whatever beating he had coming. He felt strangely hollow. The stone floor felt cold under his feet, and he hadn’t been able to feel his toes for hours. He glanced out of the window; the sun was still low in the sky, as it had been minutes ago when he’d last looked. Only a few more hours, he reminded himself, then he could escape to the library. He could handle a few hours. 

“This is intolerable!” Lord Gryffindor shouted, and Sal flinched. If the jug had been any more full, his movement would have spilt the wine, but it wasn’t. Lord Gryffindor had been drinking all morning; it was nearly empty. “Who does that man think he is, to doubt my word? Have I not proven my worth with wand and sword?”

“Of course, milord,” Dunstan interjected quickly. Sal noticed that even he was starting to look nervous. Lord Gryffindor was a proud man and quick to anger if his honour was ever put to question. 

“Hiding away behind castle walls when there is a dark wizard loose about the country!” Sal winced, as his master’s voice grew even louder. “It is cowardice!”

“You could leave, milord,” Dunstan suggested quietly. It was rare for Sal to think of the prick as brave, but in that moment, Sal could not think of anything more courageous than daring to draw their Lord’s attention. All of the other servants had long since fled to their rooms, leaving the main sitting room to the Lord, Dunstan, and (by default) Sal.

“We cannot!” Lord Gryffindor shouted so loudly that the glass shook in the window panes; Sal suspected that his master had released a bit of his magic, as well. A thin tendril of fear broke through his apathy; he had never seen his master lose control in such a way. “That damned man has put up wards! We cannot leave the grounds of this damned castle!” The windows rattled even harder. Sal gulped and stared down at his feet, wishing with all of his might that he had Harry’s invisibility cloak. 

“Perhaps a drink, milord,” Dunstan suggested nervously, beckoning Sal over. Sal blanched and quickly took back any thoughts he had had on Dunstan’s clearly non-existent bravery. Cursing through the intense dread that settled over him, Sal hurried over to his master’s cup and refilled the half-empty goblet. His master tossed back the wine in one motion, and gestured for another. Sal poured quickly, and retreated back a step, but stayed close. He did not want to be too far away if he was required again.

“To be treated as an errant child,” Lord Gryffindor muttered to himself, his hand clenching tightly around the stem of the goblet, “it is intolerable.” He lifted the drink to his lips, and took a long sip. “I only wish Lady Rowena would hurry and discover how to return us to our own time.” He paused, running a hand over his face and then continued on, as if speaking to himself.  “She and Lady Helga spend enough of their time away in study together, I do not wish to add to their burden when I know they spend every spare minute at work, but I wish that they had made  _ some  _ progress.” He took another long gulp of his wine. “Perhaps Dumbledore would take down his damned wards and allow me to take down that filthy dark wizard, if he could see how close we were to leaving him alone with his burdens.” He slammed the goblet onto a side table, and turned to stare out of the window; the glass slowly began to rattle again, growing louder and more emphatic as the seconds drew on. 

“Milord?” Dunstan asked quietly, indicating for Sal to refill the goblet.

Lord Gryffindor spun round immediately, as the glass in the lower window pan cracked sharply. Sal flinched violently at the loud noise, and jarred the jug that he was pouring from. A large dash of wine missed the goblet and spilt onto the floor. Sal stared at it blankly, mind blank with terror. The room was deadly silent. Dunstan reached over, wrenching the jug from his hands with his left hand, and slapping him hard around the face with his right. Sal felt a familiar panic rising within him, as Dunstan reached out to grab him. He flinched away, but before the other man could get a hand on Sal, he was shoved out of the way, as Lord Gryffindor advanced on Sal, with a roar of outrage.

Sal flinched and backed slowly away into the corner. Lord Gryffindor stalked towards him, eyes blazing.

“You pathetic little wretch. Clumsy, worthless, little beast!” Sal flinched with each word, stepping away until his back hit the wall.  His master followed, his tall figure looming over Sal, as he continued to spit venom at him. “I am the only reason you are alive, boy. I should have slit your wretched throat that day and been done with you.”

Sal curled into himself, shoulders hunching over. He could feel his heart pounding manically in his chest, and he shook so badly that he thought he might shatter apart where he stood.

“I should have thought better than to try and save the soul of such a damnable brat.” Lord Gryffindor was shouting; his face was so close to Sal that he could feel the man’s spit landing on his face. The rest of the room was silent, the air palpable with tension; even the crackling of the fire seemed to have ceased. Sal tucked his chin into his chest and screwed his eyes shut tightly. He tried to find the part of his mind that he knew he could retreat into, the part that would make him detached and calm, but he couldn’t find that place inside himself. 

“Are you listening to me, boy?” His master shouted at him, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him fiercely. Sal’s head snapped back against the wall and his vision went white for a moment. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. His master shook him harder, as if he thought he could shake the words he was looking for right out of Sal’s lips. Sal tried to breathe, to take in the air that he needed to reply, but he was frozen in fear. His throat was too tight and his mouth too dry to speak. 

A firm push sent him crashing into the wall once more, and pain flared across the most recent, still-healing wounds on his back. His master looked down at him with utmost disdain.

“Get out!” Lord Gryffindor commanded curtly. “Go to the kitchens; go to Hell, if you will. Just get out of my sight.” It took Sal a moment to realise that he had been addressed. But he couldn’t make his feet move. His master stalked back to the table, and picked up the goblet for another sip. His eyes flickered over to Sal, and, seeing that he had not moved, he roared in anger. His master looked at the goblet in his hand for a long moment, and then hurled it straight at Sal. “Get out!” He bellowed, as the cup flew through the air. Sal flinched, and the silver goblet crashed against his shoulder, the contents flying up in the air and drenching Sal in the strong-smelling, thick, red wine. The shock of the cold red liquid running down his face, trickling into his eyes, startled Sal out of his fear. His legs finally obeyed his panicked brain, and he scrambled past his master. He rushed out of the door, without bowing, and fled straight down to the kitchens, dripping wet and shivering.

He ignored the stares of many of the students as he rushed through the castle in a blind panic. He skidded to a halt in a secluded corner of the entrance hall, and searched madly for the secret entrance. He found the hidden door behind the tapestry of the dancing golden-haired witches, and rushed inside. It was the servants’ entrance, and the way that he had been taken to the kitchens when he first arrived in the school. He stumbled in, and let the door swing shut behind him. The kitchen was loud and bustling and at that moment it felt to Sal, for some ridiculous reason, like it might be the only safe place in the castle. 

“How can wes be helping young master?” A kindly house elf asked him. He realised that he was standing in the middle of the kitchen, stained red and shaking violently. He shook his head blankly, trying to tell her that he wasn’t anyone’s master, but all that came out was a slightly manic laugh; it sounded strange even to his panicked brain. The house elf looked at him sternly, putting her hands on her hips. “Now yous be listening to Mipsy, young master.” She guided him over to a stool at the table, and placed a hot mug of milk in front of him. “Yous be sitting here, and be drinking that, and be telling Mipsy what’s wrong.” Sal cradled the milk in his hands, feeling the heat warm his palms. He lifted it to his lips and took a sip of the hot, sweet liquid. He felt the warmth settle in his stomach, calming him. He had been eating his master’s table scraps for weeks, and it was the most delicious thing to pass his lips since the mince pie he’d had on Christmas Day. 

“I’m not a master,” he found himself saying into the mug. Mipsy slowly sat down on the other side of the table and looked at him calmly. The rest of the kitchen bustled around them, as if they were in the eye of the storm that was the frantic lunch preparations. It was almost as if the kitchen staff were used to distraught young wizards bursting in at completely inopportune moments. Mipsy continued to look at him calmly, allowing him time to speak. She was tiny, far smaller than the other house elves rushing about the kitchen, and wearing a small towel that bore the Hogwarts crest. Her large, protruding eyes were kind and endlessly patient. “I’m not a master,” he repeated, putting his mug down on the table. Her expression grew confused, but she still let Sal take his time to speak. “I’m a slave,” he said finally. “Lord Gryffindor’s slave. He sent me here to help you out.”

Mipsy looked at him blankly for a long moment. Sal waited for her reaction, but she only reached over, and nudged the mug closer to him. Sal was halfway through another sip, before he realised that he really should be helping the house elves, not sitting around drinking milk like an infant.  He jumped to his feet, panic gathering again in his chest, as he sketched a short bow to Mipsy. 

“I’m so sorry,” he rushed out quickly. “I d-didn’t mean to stop you working…what can I d-do to help?” His hands were shaking again, and he nearly knocked over the mug. 

The kitchen had gone completely silent, all of the house elves had stopped to stare at Sal, and he felt a blush rising over his cheeks. They probably thought he was some ungrateful little brat, sitting around when they were all busy. He looked down at his shaking hands in embarrassment. He started and flinched, as Mipsy placed a hand back on his arm and guided him back to his seat. 

“There’s being nothing to see here,” she told the room sternly, with a disapproving look. The other house elves immediately rushed back to their tasks, although they kept shooting curious looks at Sal. “Yous be sitting here,” she told Sal again, much more firmly. “And yous be drinking your milk.” Sal obediently took a long sip. He felt incredibly chastened by the diminutive elf in front of him. “A wizard being acting like a house elf,” Mipsy said to herself in wry amusement, “yous should be meeting Dobby.”

“Dobby?” Sal asked. But Mipsy just shook her head. 

“Never yous be minding about that.” She smiled, and reached over to gently touch his hand. “Yous be telling Mipsy what’s wrong.”

It was a gesture of kindness, of care, that Sal had not experienced in a long time. It was also from someone safe, someone who he was almost equal to, even if she was probably more magically powerful than he could even dream of being; Sal was the only slave on his master’s estate, and Lord Gryffindor rarely had visitors who brought their own staff. He hadn’t had anyone truly  _ safe  _ to talk to in years. He found himself fighting back tears, as the words rushed out of him. He told the small elf all about the jump in time, about Harry and Ginny and Hermione and Colin, and about Professor Snape. He didn’t tell her about his magic lessons, because, fellow slave or not, that was a secret between him and the professor. He was not giving anyone the kind of leverage over him that that knowledge would provide. He had just finished telling her about his master’s temper, and had to fight back the feeling of nausea that rose as he realised how close he’d come to a truly horrific beating.

Mipsy absently patted at his hand. “Don’t yous be worrying,” she told him with a warm smile. “Mipsy will be taking care of everything.” For a brief moment, Sal thought that she meant she was just going to click her fingers and send them back through time, or magic him somewhere very far away from his master and his dreadful wrath; but she merely summoned over a large plate of roast pork and crackling, with creamy mashed potatoes and plump garden peas, all drizzled in apple sauce. He was salivating just looking at it, and he assumed it must be for his master; it had come straight from the freshly plated food, not the scrap bucket. To his great surprise, she plonked the plate down in front of him and told him, in no uncertain terms, to eat. She disappeared for a few minutes, whilst he stuffed his face. He tried to eat slowly, knowing that his stomach would revolt if he filled it too quickly, after eating so sparsely for so long. That was something he had learnt as a very young child. 

By the time that she returned, he had only managed a quarter of the plate. She looked at him very sternly, but, when he blushed bright red, she didn’t press the issue. Instead she pulled him up from his stool, and through the kitchens, into the house elf quarters behind them. She brought him to a room that had several beds in it, and a bathroom off to the side. Inside the bathroom was a large tin bath, full almost to the brim with hot, soapy water. Mipsy told him to have a bath, and wash the wine from his hair. He sat in the water for what felt like hours, but every time it started to grow colder, Sal felt a flare of magic, and it heated itself up again. It was marvellous; he hadn’t felt so relaxed in ages. A bar of soap and a small flannel had been left on the floor, next to the bath. Sal washed his hair and his body several times, flushing as the water grew murky and grey; he had not realised he had been so filthy. Finally, when his skin had grown wrinkly, like it used to after he had spent hours swimming in the sea, back when he was a small child, there was a quiet knock on the door. Mipsy walked in, holding a large, fluffy towel and his freshly laundered clothes. He had no idea that she’d come into the room to collect them, and told her so. 

“Wes being used to looking after lots and lots of young wizards and witches. It is not being hard to be being quiet.” She smiled warmly at him, and he felt very embarrassed for his naiveté; he should have known better than to doubt the magic of house elves. 

She left him to dress himself, and then reappeared a minute or so later to lead him back through to the bedroom. She pointed to a bed in the corner. It was far longer than the others in the room, and looked to have been magically elongated. He slowly sat down, and then, under Mipsy’s coaxing, lay down. The bed was nowhere near as comfortable as the one in Professor Snape’s quarters had been, but Sal had been sleeping on the stone floor of the fireplace in his master’s sitting room all month, and so it was far more comfortable than he had been used to, of late. Mipsy reached over and pulled the blanket up to Sal’s chin. He flinched, and tensed as her hand neared his face, but she only tucked the soft fabric up around him. She looked at him sadly as he eyed her warily, and then sighed softly. 

“It will be being all right in the morning,” she promised him quietly, and gently patted his side. Sal lay frozen, as she slowly stood and walked towards the door. 

“Why are you doing this for me?” Sal asked quietly, when she reached the doorway. She turned to face him with an expression that was half sadness, half quiet anger. 

“Professor Dumbledore is being a good master,” she said softly, walking back over to his bedside. “But not all of us is having nice masters before we came here.” She looked at him with sympathy and understanding. “Wes be having to look after each other.” 

She pressed a gentle kiss on his forehead, and then quickly left the room. The torches immediately extinguished as she left the room. Even though it was still the middle of the day, Sal slowly fell asleep to the sound of his own quiet sobs.

* * *

 

The spring term of Draco’s sixth year at Hogwarts had not been going particularly well so far; in fact, it had been going bloody abysmally. He was struggling with Apparition lessons, and his mother was sending him letters every other day emphasising the need to learn such a useful skill, as if he wasn’t aware that his fellow Death Eaters already saw him as a miserable failure of a wizard. He was performing terribly in lessons, and skipping Quidditch practice- one of the few things he enjoyed at school, aside from winding up Saint Potter and the rest of the Gryffindors – in order to work on the Vanishing Cabinet on the seventh floor. He had not had much luck on that front, and he was beginning to get concerned. The Dark Lord had told him, in a chillingly understated series of threats, exactly what would happen should Draco fail in his mission. It was not the most pleasant Christmas that Draco had ever experienced. His life had taken a dramatic turn for the worst since his father had been arrested and, considering how truly atrociously his year had been going so far, Draco firmly believed that he was owed some tremendously good luck in the near future.

Which was why, when he walked into the kitchens early one morning, looking for a quick breakfast so he could get in some time with the Vanishing Cabinet before the rest of the school awoke, he was only slightly surprised to see Sal standing at the counter. The other boy was stirring a vat of porridge that was almost as tall as he was, and talking quietly to a house elf. Draco broke into a wide smile , and waved away the house elf that had come over to greet him, instead walking over to where Sal was stood. There was a smile on the other boy’s face, but it fell immediately as Draco approached, his features forming a polite, neutral expression. Draco tried not to be too offended at that, and instead focused on his good luck. He had just found the solution to another one of his problems. 

“Here you are!” Draco announced, with a quiet huff of disdain. “I’ve been looking for you for weeks, and now I find you, of all places, in the  _ kitchens _ .” Sal flinched slightly, and Draco felt irritation crawling up his spine. He wasn’t  _ that _ intimidating, was he? Certainly not compared to his Auntie Bella, or the Dark Lord himself.  But then again, he reminded himself, he was a  _ Malfoy _ ; perhaps he was more frightening than he had thought. He smiled slightly at the thought, but shrugged it off quickly. Whatever the case, he was quite certain that the great Salazar Slytherin should not be intimidated by a sixteen year old teenager, no matter his lineage. That was something that they would need to work on. Quickly revising his plans for the morning, he grabbed Sal’s arm. “Well, come on then,” he told the other boy sternly. Sal went completely still under his hand, and so Draco was able to drag him away from the vat. 

“I’m sorry, sir.” Sal quickly interjected, as Draco dragged them both over to the portrait hole. “I have to b-be here.” He shot a quick glance over to the house elf that was by the vat of porridge. 

“Master Malfoy, Sal be needing to work here today,” she told him quietly, her hands twisting at the hem of her bedraggled tea-towel toga. Draco had no idea why all the house elves were so terrified of him. He was always perfectly civil to his family elves, and only ever told them to punish themselves when they really deserved it; well, apart from Dobby, but his father had sold him at the end of Draco’s second year, apparently to teach Draco the value of respectful inferiors. Draco had to admit that it was a lesson that he’d needed to learn; he’d been a spoilt brat when he was younger. As he had made prefect last year, hit was clear that his father’s teaching method had worked.

“We won’t be more than an hour,” Draco announced calmly, in what he thought was quite a nice compromise. He’d been searching the castle for Sal ever since he’d come back from the holidays; he thought that Sal could give him at least an hour of his time. Besides, Draco thought to himself with a small smirk, he was sure that the house elves could handle the porridge on their own. Sal still looked like he wanted nothing more to Disapparate on the spot. Draco idly wondered if he could, and felt a familiar frustration rise within him. He hated the process of apparition with an intense passion; almost, in fact, as much as he loved the idea of it. The house elf looked very nervous, but opened her mouth as if to say something. Draco, tired of the deliberation, merely rolled his eyes and dragged Sal out of the kitchens. He pulled the unresisting boy along down the corridor, and into the room that he had had Goyle set up weeks ago. He flicked his wand a couple of times to light the fire and cast a few warming charms against the chill of the early morning air, before dumping Sal in one of the comfy green armchairs in front of the fire. 

Draco himself sat down slowly and gracefully in the second chair, and watched Sal for a long minute. As he went to berate the other boy for leading him on a wild snitch hunt around the castle all term, he was rudely interrupted, by a low growling from his stomach. He realised, with intense embarrassment, that he had not eaten breakfast, and so quickly called for an elf. To his surprise, it was the elf who had spoken to him in the kitchen that appeared. She bowed gracefully to his request for food, and disappeared, only to return promptly with a tray complete with a pot full of tea and a couple of racks of freshly buttered toast. There were a couple of jars of jam and marmalade on the side. She placed the whole lot on the table between the two chairs.  It was not the breakfast that Draco had been hoping for, but he supposed that it was better than nothing. The elf bowed lowly to him, and then again to Sal. Something quick and urgent seemed to pass between the two of them in the moment before she disappeared, but it was gone before Draco had a chance to work out quite what it was. He decided not to concern himself, and instead reached over to serve himself a couple of rounds of toast. As he quickly ate - with a lack of decorum that would have his mother fainting, were she to see him - Sal poured a cup of tea from the pot, adding milk. When Draco had finished inhaling his breakfast, Sal quietly handed him the cup. Draco gulped down a few sips, then added a couple of spoonful’s of sugar. He pushed the tray away from him, and turned to face Sal. 

“My apologies, I had completely forgotten to have breakfast,” he said in his most dignified manner, flushing with embarrassment. He was sure that his mother - and his father, for that matter - would have had a great deal to say about Draco’s uncouth behaviour, but Draco had found himself very short of time this year. He had learnt to grab both food and sleep whenever he had a spare moment. Sal just watched him quietly and closely. Draco cleared his throat, and continued. “I believe I told you before Christmas that I was going to help you discover your true potential.” Draco waited until Sal slowly nodded his agreement. “Well I have been  _ trying _ to uphold my word on that front, but you’ve made it very difficult.” Sal flinched, as Draco’s tone grew colder. Draco sniffed in disdain, glad that the other boy seemed to appreciate just what a nuisance he had been to him. He had drawn up a complete schedule of lessons; he had allocated time specifically for teaching Sal how to become the real Salazar Slytherin, which was a real sacrifice considering how time-starved he was that year. He had therefore been very disgruntled  when Sal had proven more difficult to pin down than a Demiguise under a Disillusionment Charm, and the whole thing had been thrown into disarray.

“I apologise, sir,” Sal said. Draco tutted, once, just to emphasise how great an inconvenience the whole affair had been to him. 

“Well, good,” Draco said sternly. “The fact of the matter is, we are now very behind where I had planned for us to be.” In reality, Draco was endlessly glad that he’d stumbled upon Sal so serendipitously. The Dark Lord had been intensely curious about his prodigious ancestor, and had asked Draco questions all through the holidays about what the real Salazar Slytherin was like. Apparently no one else had even been aware of his existence in the castle. Well apart from Snape, but he was pretending to have only caught fleeting glimpses of the boy in the corridors. Draco was quietly impressed and also very, very scared at the ease with which his professor could fool the Dark Lord, but Snape had also warned Draco not to give away the fact that the great Slytherin was a slave of any form, and had seemed to know what he was talking about. So Draco had trotted out the line that this professor had given him, that he had been forbidden to speak to any of the Founders, and had then quickly begged his leave to do his homework. The other Death Eaters had laughed at him for that, but it had provided a convenient excuse to stay in his room for as much of the holiday as he’d dared. He had not wished to test his pitiful Occlumency skills against the Dark Lord. All of this therefore meant that Draco had a very pressing urge to turn Sal into a respectable Pureblood wizard, before Easter if possible. He needed to be able to tell the Dark Lord honestly that his ancestor was a man to be proud of. Otherwise, Draco thought to himself with a shudder, the Dark Lord would not be impressed with him. 

Draco regarded Sal and sipped at his tea. Now that he had the other boy in front of him, he was not sure where to begin. It was quite a different thing to sit in front of another person to teach them something than he had imagined when he had first sat alone in his dormitory, inventing lesson plans. It was also daunting to think that the boy in front of him, no matter his current pathetic state, would one day turn into the great Salazar Slytherin. Draco forced himself not to forget that fact; he did not want to unintentionally offend the Founder of his house, but it would be impossible to progress his current plan if he were fawning over the other boy like a love-sick teenage girl. He racked his mind in panic for where to begin, although he forced his face to stay fixed in a small smirk. If there was one thing that he had learnt in his years at school, it was that a teacher should not show their students any fear. There was a reason Trelawney drank like an Auror. His mouth felt very dry, and he took another sip of his tea. He cleared his throat quietly, and Sal’s eyes shot to focus on him. 

“Perhaps if we begin with a bit of history,” Draco suggested. Sal nodded quickly in acceptance, and Draco felt himself flush with the thrill of achievement. Perhaps this teaching thing would not be as hard as he’d feared. 

Half an hour later, Draco was not so certain that his initial confidence had not been a bit premature. He had rattled through the most prominent Pureblood family histories, and rushed through the most important wizarding events of the past few centuries. That part had not been so bad; Sal had been an attentive student, and seemed to have a good memory for facts. Draco had offered him quill and parchment, but Sal had refused with a blush. Draco had been grateful, rather than too offended, that Sal had not wanted to make notes, as he was not entirely certain that he was getting all of the facts correct. There were a lot of goblin rebellions, and he had forgotten nearly all of them the minute he had finished his History of Magic OWL. The real problem had come when Draco had started explaining the basis of the most recent wizarding wars. Sal had seemed to understand Grindelwald’s ideals, but did not seem to comprehend the Dark Lord’s.

“But what is the problem with those born to non-magical parents?” Sal asked, looking completely baffled. “Aren’t they magical too?”

“Mudbloods.” Draco corrected quickly, before repeating himself for the third time in five minutes. “They’re not the  _ same _ , though.” Sal did not look convinced. “Look, you understand that Muggles are dangerous, right? That they don’t understand magic and will hurt any wizard they find, out of fear or greed?” Sal nodded slowly, a dark expression crossing his features, his eyes very far away. Draco swallowed thickly; he was not sure what bad experience the other boy had endured at the hands of Muggles, but he was sure that it must have been terrible. One of the first lessons that his parents had taught him was ‘Muggle Safety’, about how he should behave very carefully if he found himself without his parents in a Muggle area. It might have been centuries ago, around the introduction of the Statute of Secrecy, that Muggles had last killed a wizarding child for having magic, but the old families did not forgive, nor did they forget. Besides, Draco knew from listening to one of Potter’s pet Mudblood’s rants about the superiority of Muggles, the wretched creatures now had weapons that could kill hundreds of people at the press of a button. Draco shivered at the terrifying thought, and forced his attention back to the conversation. Where had he been? Oh , yes, Mudbloods. Right. 

“Mudbloods are just like Muggles,” he told Sal seriously. “They don’t understand our society. They come to Hogwarts and try to change everything. They don’t understand our traditions, or our culture, and they pollute our magic with their filthy blood by breeding with blood traitors.” He all but hissed the last part. The decreasing number of truly Pureblood families was beginning to become a point of concern for Pureblood wizarding society; inter-marriage was one thing, but inbreeding was quite another. The Blacks had been marrying first cousins for generations, and it was well known that they were all a bit…unbalanced. Draco very firmly did not think about the fact that his mother had been born a Black, and instead turned his attention back to Sal. The other boy was looking at him with a strange look.

“I’m a Mudblood,” he said very quietly, and very seriously. Draco looked at him for a long moment, and then burst out laughing. 

“That’s impossible!” He told the other boy, once his giggles had trailed off. “You’re Salazar Slytherin. There’s no way you could be anything other than a Pureblood.”

Sal shook his head. “I’m just Sal,” he said with quiet certainty. “And my b-blood is probably the furthest thing from p-pure you could find.”

“Preposterous.” Draco waved the suggestion away with a flick of his hand. The mere thought that Salazar Slytherin was a mudblood was so ludicrous that he almost started laughing again. “Clearly you are ignorant of your true parentage. Perhaps they were very weak wizards. It has been known to happen, even in families with the purest blood. Just look at Crabbe and Goyle.” He smiled sympathetically at Sal, but the other boy didn’t look reassured, instead he looked amused. Sal took a deep breath, and looked Draco straight in the eye. 

“I’m the bastard son of a Muggle prostitute.” He said very seriously, and Draco felt his face flush with embarrassment. The straightforward way that he spoke about such things was shocking to Draco; one did not talk about things like that in polite society. It seemed as if the other boy truly believed that; but Draco knew that it was simply impossible. There was no way as powerful a wizard as Salazar Slytherin could have come from such ignoble roots. Draco felt so sorry for the other boy, to have grown up believing yourself to be from such a lowly social position must have been truly humiliating!

“No,” Draco told him in return, leaning forwards, and fixing Sal with his sternest look. “That is impossible.”

“I was born and raised in a hovel, and only baptised because the priest saw me with my mother, and threatened to have her fined if she didn’t have me at the church that Sunday.” Sal smirked slighted at the thought. “Considering I remember the experience, I am quite sure she was far past the thirty days grace period.” Draco had no idea what Sal was talking about, but one thing was becoming painfully clear to him; Sal had no idea who he truly was. He therefore took the time to explain to the other boy how there was no way he could have such powerful magic, if he truly was the lowborn son of a Muggle… scarlet woman. Draco told him in no uncertain terms that he must have been the child of a great Pureblood family, and that some terrible circumstance must have left him stranded in the arms of a common Muggle, when he was only a baby. Draco thought that the story was rather exciting, if not a little tragic. Sal did not look convinced. 

“Perhaps my father was a wizard,” he said thoughtfully. “It’s possible…” He shrugged casually, and Draco blushed in mortification at the other boy’s easy discussion of such…things. But he shook his head emphatically in return. 

“No, because then that would make you a half-blood,” Draco explained patiently. “And that wouldn’t work either.” He fixed Sal with a very stern look, and the other boy shrank back slightly, expression turning wary. “No, I am sure I am correct. You are clearly Salazar Slytherin, the descendant of an ancient Pureblood line; you must find out about your true heritage at some point in your own future. That is the only possible explanation that makes sense.” Sal flinched and nodded quickly in agreement. Draco was not entirely certain that the other boy believed him, but he was sure that he would in time. Draco knew very well that he was correct- there was simply no way that Slytherin could have been a Mudblood!

The mere thought set Draco off again, and he fell into another fit of laughter. Sal looked vaguely unnerved and leant away from him, angling his body towards the door. Draco forced himself to calm down, and took a quick glance at his pocket watch. It was his Grandfather Black’s, and was meant to have been gifted it to him on his seventeenth birthday, but his mother had given it to him the day that his father had been arrested. She had told him that he was now the man of the house, and would have to act accordingly. It was an honour that Draco had not been, and still was not certain he was quite ready for, but he had been forced to take it on regardless. War makes all children grow up to quickly, his mother had said; Draco had scoffed, but with the ever-mounting pressure of the Dark Lord’s mission at his back, Draco was starting to understand what she’d meant. He closed the watch with a sigh. He was running low on time, and he really wanted to get some time in with the Vanishing Cabinet before Transfiguration. He couldn’t skip another of McGonagall’s lessons; he was almost as scared of her wrath as he was his mother’s. 

“I believe we shall finish there,” he told Sal curtly, putting the watch back into the pocket of his robes, with a flourish. He was proud that he’d managed to pull the gesture off so fluidly; he had spent hours before the mirror perfecting just the right amount of casual elegance, when his mother had first gifted it to him. Considering Draco’s current predicament, it would have seemed rather a useless waste of his time, had he not just managed to pull the gesture off so perfectly. He was a Malfoy after all, and there were appearances to maintain. “I will see you here in two days’ time,” Draco told Sal firmly. “I had been hoping to have these sessions every week, but we are now frightfully behind where I had hoped for us to be.” He fixed Sal with an irritated look, and the other boy flinched. 

“Yes, sir,” Sal agreed quietly. “B-but I might not be able to g-get away, sir. I’m meant to b-be in the kitchens.”

“I am sure the house elves can do without you for an hour or two,” Draco told him firmly. Sal flinched again, and Draco sighed in exasperation. “Look,” he said, attempting to make his voice softer, “there’s no need to be concerned. I’m going to help you. By the time we are through, you will be the greatest wizard of all time. Then you won’t need to waste your time with servants.” 

Sal looked up at him, his expression guarded. “I’ll still be a slave though, sir,” he said slowly. 

Draco tutted in exasperation and rose to his feet; Sal jumped to his own, and watched as Draco strode towards the door. As soon as he reached the threshold, Draco spun around and fixed Sal with a haughty look. 

“You are Salazar Slytherin,” he told Sal firmly. “You are _ nobody’s _ slave.” With that, he turned on his heel and strode off to the seventh floor, quietly pleased with the unexpected, and pleasantly surprising, turn that his morning had taken.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nerdy historical notes:
> 
> In Anglo Saxon England, children had to be baptised within 30 days of their birth, or the parents would be fined. Sal's mum was considerably later than that... 
> 
> Please comment or leave kudos if you enjoyed this!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco's plots continue to fail and Sal suffers the consequences. Harry begins to question whether or not he made a mistake. 
> 
> Warnings for depression and references to abuse.

The weeks dragged haltingly onwards, with all the haste of a sinner on his way to confession. February slowly gave way to March, and by the time that the last vestiges of frost had melted from the castle windows, Sal had found his place amongst the kitchens of Hogwarts. To begin with, he had noted the passage of time with the calm indifference that marked most of his actions. He had realised that he had missed Imbolc whilst serving in his master’s quarters, and so performed a very late ritual in one of the many, many empty store rooms, lighting a small fire with some old sacking and a bit of magic. His heart, however, had not really been in it, and he had started to feel his mind slipping away from him even further. The numbness and apathy that had taken over his mind had dug their claws deep into to his thoughts, and so he floated through his days, as if nothing could touch him. Mipsy had not been impressed with this, and, within a few days of his sudden appearance in the kitchens, she had taken to cajoling him into activity whenever she could. 

He had tried, on first coming to the kitchens, to help the house elves with their tasks, but they had been reluctant to let him work, insisting that it was not his place to do so. Sal had understood that, and had tried not to feel too embarrassed by his own inadequacy; he knew that he was nowhere near as magically powerful as the house elves. Nor was he as diligent in his work, without someone supervising him and the imminent threat of violence. So he had blushed and retreated back to his room, lying quietly on his bed and feeling utterly useless. With nothing to do, he had sunk into the vast emptiness that was his mind, allowing his thoughts to dwell on his sorry lot in life, and torturing himself with thoughts of “what could have been”. It had taken two days of his utter idleness, with Sal lying on his bed and only joining the house elves for meals that rankled at his conscience for enjoying, having not helped to make them, before Mipsy had had enough. On the third day of his self-imposed seclusion, she had dragged him out of his bed, scolded him soundly about isolating himself unnecessarily, and planted him in the kitchen. She had then sat him in front of a large tub of a strange vegetable, handed him a knife, and told him to peel. The task had been mindless, but Mipsy had taken her place at the counter next to him and talked to him all through the day, telling him various anecdotes about the castle and the ridiculous hijinks of Winky and Dobby (a pair set to try the most patient of house elves, if Mipsy’s stories were to be believed). The day had passed quickly, and Sal had found that he felt a little better, a little more human, for having spent the day in company. 

The next day, Mipsy had done the same thing; she had pulled him from his bed, set him some repetitive task, and talked to him whilst he completed it. The day after that, she had done the same, and kept doing so day after day, until it had become a routine. As time passed, Sal found himself pulling further away from the terrible numb state of apathy that he had been living in since the New Year, and found that he was able to enjoy his time in the kitchens. Within a couple of weeks, he was chatting amiably with Mipsy and feeling more happy and contented than he had in a long time, even more so than when he was living with Professor Snape. Under Mipsy’s watchful eye, he woke with the other house elves, ate with them, and then went about whatever tasks that she had set him for the day. The other house elves had also become comfortable with his presence; although they had, at first, been very wary and respectful, treating Sal as if he were a master. Sal had balked at that, and was tremendously relieved that they had finally grown used to his presence, and accepted that he was one of them, even if he was a human. They had even started to joke with him, laughing whenever he shared a sarcastic comment with Mipsy, and sharing their latest Peeves the poltergeist stories with him. By the end of February, it was as if he had been living in the kitchens for years.

Helping Mipsy in the kitchens was not, however, the only demand that had been placed on his time. Draco had continued to turn up in the kitchens in the early morning to drag Sal to a series of lessons. After the first couple of times that this had happened, Sal had observed the way that every house elf in the kitchen tensed as soon as Draco walked into the room. He had suspected that his apparent closeness with the other boy was part of the reason that the house elves were struggling to trust him, and had set himself to the task of investigating. He had soon discovered from Mipsy that Draco did not have the best reputation as a master, and that he was known for being a bit of a brute, and a bully. Nonetheless, every time Draco turned up in the doorway of the kitchens, Sal followed him, not daring to challenge someone of his standing, and also far too invested in what Draco had to say to him. Thankfully, the other boy had been nothing but pleasant to Sal, if not a little condescending. As the weeks dragged on and Draco’s lessons continued, Sal had begun to realise that it was just in Draco’s nature to be supercilious, and so tried not to take his behaviour too personally. 

Draco had started with a series of lectures on wizarding history, going back over the past few centuries, and then moved on to discuss the implications of lineage and magical blood in social hierarchy. He continually refused to accept that Sal could be anything less than something called ‘Pureblood’; the implication being that he was from an ancient and noble wizarding family. Sal found this laughable; he knew that his blood was probably the farthest thing from pure this side of Sodom or Gomorrah. Sal had professed that his low birth was evidence that he couldn’t be Draco’s Salazar Slytherin; he knew very well who he was, and who his mother had been, even if he didn’t know his father. He had always had suspicions about the blacksmith, back when he was a boy, as there were few men in town who shared his green eyes. But his mother had slapped him upside the head the one time he’d asked, and Sal had realised that she didn’t know herself. It was better not to dwell on such things. 

Draco had refused to listen to Sal’s protests that he was not some noble’s son abandoned, and left to live with some random woman. Sal doubted that such things happened outside of tales told by bards, but he had given up attempting to convince Draco otherwise. The other boy got quite angry the more that Sal disagreed with him on the subject of lineage, and Sal decided that it was safer to just quietly allow Draco to continue with his delusions. 

As the lessons progressed, Draco had moved on to discuss etiquette and manners. There was, apparently, a whole code of behaviour for how the nobles treated each other: how they ate at the table, how they greeted each other, what they wore, and even how they used their magic. Sal had, over his years as a slave and out of sheer necessity, closely studied the actions and behaviour of Lord Gryffindor and his household, and he could safely say that he had not observed half of the actions that Draco said were basics social manners, in any of the people that he had watched. He would have accused Draco of mocking him, had the other boy not seemed painfully sincere in his lessons, and were it not for the fact that Draco practised the things that he taught in his deportment and dress. Sal had not been certain that all of the things he was learning were entirely useful, but he had been certain that Draco thought that they were, and so he had resigned himself to learning them anyway. There was, after all, no such thing as useless information. 

By the end of the first couple of weeks, Draco had moved on to discuss something called politics. From that point onwards, Sal had been fascinated. Draco had put into words concepts that he had observed for himself over the years in the petty fights amongst the pack of roaming children that he had played with as a small child, and in the internal power struggles of Lord Gryffindor’s household staff. Draco was slowly showing Sal the tools of influence and intrigue, of power and privilege, and teaching him how to make them work for himself. For so long, Sal had stayed in the shadows, not daring to interfere too much with the actions of others. He had good instincts, and he was observant; he knew this, but he had never been brave enough to pull against his tether too much. He had a place, and there was a certain safety in that, even if it was a hideous and frustrating position to be in. But Draco’s lessons were showing him so much possibility, and so many opportunities, and Sal had started to want to out some of the theory into practise, himself.

As winter slowly faded, and daffodils began to spring up all over the grounds of the castle, Draco had started to become more sporadic in his lessons. He had insisted that there was nothing wrong, but he had begun to look more drawn and more tired with every passing day. Finally, one day at the start of March, everything came to a head. Draco turned up to the kitchens at a horrendously early hour, looking shaken and stressed. Sal was sat enjoying breakfast and joking with Mipsy, when the other boy came barrelling through the entrance as if the hordes of Hell were on his heels. The room immediately fell silent, as the whole table jumped to their feet. Draco didn’t let anyone speak, instead before he stormed over, and seized Sal’s arm in a frantic grasp. His mouth was set in a thin line, and Sal immediately felt his body go limp, his heart pounding in terror at the force of Draco’s anger. Draco dragged him out of the kitchens, and through to their little room. As soon as they were in front of the fire, he released Sal’s arm and started to stalk the length of the room, running his hands through his hair. Sal quietly sat down in the chair that he had slowly come to think of as ‘his’, and waited for Draco to speak. His heart was still pounding fiercely in his chest, and Draco was not doing anything to calm Sal’s nerves.

Finally, after what seemed like hours of Draco storming up and down, shooting Sal desperate glances, opening his mouth as if to speak, only to immediately close it again and shake his head, Draco threw up his hands and stormed out of the room. Sal didn’t dare move for a full half an hour afterwards, just in case Draco changed his mind and came back. He had grown much more comfortable with the other boy over the past few weeks, even to the point of trading the odd joke (something that always made Draco look absolutely thrilled), but Sal was not so stupid as to deliberately disobey, or antagonise someone who was already angry. Finally, as the room became steadily warmer, Sal decided that Draco was not coming back, and so headed back to the kitchens. 

The room was buzzing the minute he entered, elves chattering nervously between themselves as they hurried to prepare breakfast for the castle. There was heavy feeling of dread hanging ominously in the air, sinking down and settling heavy on the shoulders of all the elves, making them hunch forwards on themselves. Sal swallowed nervously. Something had happened, something bad, and Sal would bet anything (if he had anything to bet with) that Draco was somehow involved. He spotted Mipsy over in the corner of the kitchen standing on a very tall stool, frying long strips of bacon, and hurried over to speak to her. Her eyes were bright red, and swollen, and she looked very much like she’d been crying. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked her urgently. “Are you alright?” She sniffed and took a deep breath. She turned to him, and smiled at him indulgently, as she flipped a rasher of bacon out of the pan and over to him. He instinctively caught it and set about demolishing it, relieved that Mipsy seemed to be okay, as he felt his pounding heart begin to settle. The whole situation had robbed him of his appetite, even though he had barely had chance to eat anything at breakfast, before he was dragged away by Draco. But Sal was not one to waste food, and Mipsy made incredible bacon. 

“There is being nothing wrong with Mipsy,” she told him slowly, and he felt himself relax against the worktop he was leaning against. “Wes been hearing from the portraits. One of the students was being hurt last night.” She spoke quietly, and seriously, as she turned her attention back to the pan. “They was being poisoned.” Her hand shook slightly as she flipped the bacon over, and Sal felt his heart skip a beat. No wonder everyone was so concerned, the kitchen was the source of the vast majority of food in the castle. If there was a poisoning, the elves would be the first ones under suspicion. 

“Do they know what happened?” Sal asked quietly. “Do they think it was one of us?” 

Mipsy glanced at him, emptying the pan into a serving dish with a click of her fingers, and then refilling it with fresh rashers of raw meat with a wave of her hand. They held each other’s gaze for a long moment. “We is not knowing,” she finally admitted, nervously. “The masters are not telling us. We is having to wait and see.”

“It wasn’t anyone here,” Sal said quietly, with a firm conviction. He had not felt this certain about anything for a long time; he knew that the loyal, hardworking elves of Hogwarts would have sooner faced a dragon than hurt any of the young wizards and witches of the castle. He had seen them, day after day, stopping their work to rustle up illicit picnics for the first years, or to brew some late-night hot chocolate (often with shot of a little something extra) for the sleep-deprived and stressed seventh years. There was nothing they wouldn’t do for the students; they would never hurt one of them. No, Sal knew that they were not responsible for this. Mipsy turned to meet his eyes, and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder and they shared a look of understanding. They both knew who was truly to blame; it was obvious to anyone who had seen him that morning. The question was, who would be found guilty of this act? Who would be the ‘scapegoat’, that Draco’s political lessons had taught Sal all about? Sal was under no illusions that Draco would be found responsible; that was not the way that the world worked. Nor did he think that he himself had any reason to fear being found guilty of the crime. He had spent far too much time in Draco’s company of late; it would draw too much suspicion if Sal were to be implicated in the poisoning, so he could probably consider himself safe. That meant that it would probably be one of the house elves who ultimately took the fall. Sal tried not to think about what that would mean. The death of a slave who harmed a freeman was never pleasant, nor painless. Sal only hoped that Dumbledore was as good a master as Mipsy promised, and that he would grant the inevitable scapegoat a quick and clean death. Sal had seen people die from torture; he did not wish such an end to anyone.

The week following the poisoning was one of the longest of Sal’s life. The kitchens were incredibly subdued; everyone was waiting for one of the masters to swoop in full of righteous fury and start interrogating them all. On the Tuesday morning, Sal had seen a young elf quietly sobbing in one of the store rooms, and had calmly coaxed her from a panic attack by talking aimlessly about potion recipes and magical theory, until she had come back to herself. That was not the first, nor the last such incident that happened that week; Sal knew that he was not the only slave in the castle to have experienced life with a cruel master. He had barely slept at all himself, out of sheer terror that one of his master’s servants or, God forbid, Lord Gryffindor himself, might come down to the kitchens and drag Sal to one of the dungeon cells for questioning. The more time that passed without a culprit being named, the more Sal’s paranoia grew. It would hardly be the first time in his life that he had been unjustly accused and punished for crimes that were not his own, and he knew that his master was quick to believe the worst of him. 

The weight of their combined anxiety and fear pressed down heavily on them all, to the point that Sal hadn’t been able to bring himself to leave the kitchens for the usual meetings with the two ladies and Lord Godric. He had tried to join them in the library after dinner, as he normally would have, but terror made his body intransigent, and his legs would not cooperate with his will. He had eventually given the whole thing up as a lost cause and then ended up fretting for the rest of the week, as he missed day after day after day. He had been worrying endlessly that Lord Godric and the ladies would view his behaviour as suspicious, or worse that they might forget about him completely and he would lose the pleasure of their company and conversation forever. By the end of the week, Sal was a tempestuous mix of panic and rage, and was certain that his conversation would have been bitter and hateful, were he able to muster the strength of will to go to the library, at all.

“You is being silly,” Mipsy told him sternly, jolting him from his brooding thoughts. She gestured towards him with the wooden spoon with which she was stirring a large vat of soup; Sal stiffened and drew back from her slightly. He trusted Mipsy far more than he had trusted anyone since, well since Isolda, in all honesty. But he had felt far too many blows from the cook in Lord Gryffindor’s kitchen to not be wary of a wooden spoon. Mipsy looked at him appraisingly, and then glanced at the spoon in her hands. Her expression softened, and she turned back to the pan. “You is being silly,” she told him again, pointedly not looking at him, and he flushed in embarrassment. She was right, he knew that, and he was being ridiculous. 

They had received news that morning - a full week after the poisoning had occurred, Sal thought, with a deep thrill of fury- from one of the teachers. A very small man (Sal had been pleased to note that not everyone in this time were fucking giants) had arrived after breakfast and announced that the student, one Ron Weasley, was fine, although the culprit had not been found. Sal had barely registered the name as that of Harry’s friend, before the professor had continued his speech, reassuring the kitchens that the elves were not under any suspicion whatsoever. Once the threat against the elves had disappeared, Sal had felt inexplicably relieved that Draco had not been caught, and then hated himself for thinking in such a way. Draco had hurt someone, another student, and had caused countless hours of anxiety for Sal and the elves, but Sal did not feel nearly as aggrieved towards the other boy for that as he did towards the staff of Hogwarts. Sal had, after all, done many an immoral thing in his time, and he would have considered Draco an idiot, had he stepped forward to take the blame. But Sal also knew that forgiving another of attempted murder was something most people frowned upon. 

Grappling thus with his own conscience, Sal had missed most of what the professor had gone on to say, although Sal had surmised from the blank looks of the other elves around him that it was more of the same of what had been said earlier. The very short man had seemed very apologetic about the whole affair; apparently in all the initial commotion, no one had thought to let the elves know what had happened. The poison, the man had told them in an exceedingly squeaky voice, had come from a bottle that had been sent from outside of the castle. Such dreadful business, he had explained, was obviously very upsetting, but the elves were not under any suspicion, and the teachers of the school dearly hoped that the elves had not been worrying. 

The professor had left to a room of smiling elves, to the chorus of “No problem, professor sir,” and “we was only being worried about the little master,” but Sal knew that behind the polite expressions and kind words, that a lot of the elves were very angry. He understood that feeling. Even hours later, impotent rage still clawed deep within his chest. They’d known for a fucking week! A whole fucking week, and no one had thought to reassure the elves that they weren’t in any trouble! Sal didn’t know why he was so surprised. They were slaves; why should the masters tell them anything? Why should the masters care that neither Sal nor Flossy nor Polny had been able to sleep, kept awake by the threat of nightmares, and grappling with constant fatigue. Why should the masters care about their fear, their panic, their terror? They were only slaves, after all. 

Sal felt his eyes burn with an ancient anger as he remembered the Professor’s jaunty wave as he had left the room. The kitchens had fallen silent as soon as the portrait swung shut behind him, smiles dropping immediately from the faces of the staff, and staying off them for the rest of the day. The Hogwarts elves were very good at playing contented and happy, Sal noted to himself, but sometimes things were just too much. There had been too much terror for the relief to properly sink in yet. Too much pain. The injustice of the whole thing tore at Sal’s heart, but he knew that there was nothing he could do. He took a deep breath, and looked over at Mipsy again. She was watching him very closely, as she stirred away at her pan. He exhaled slowly with a deep sigh, allowing the resignation to wash over him. There was nothing to be done, and getting upset about it wasn’t going to change anything. Mipsy nodded her head approvingly and smiled gently at him, eyes sad and soft and understanding. Sal sniffed, and turned his attention back to the dishes he was supposed to be washing. He flung himself into his work, scrubbing harshly at the plates. He winced at the sting of the soap suds against the torn skin around his bitten fingernails, and let the sharp pain take over his mind, blocking out the other bitter thoughts that slunk about in his head.

* * *

Harry let out a sigh of irritation as he stared resolutely down at his Defence Against the Dark Arts essay. He had three feet on flame-based curses due the next day and he only had a foot and a half written. It was already half-past ten, he was absolutely shattered, and if it wasn’t that he strongly suspected that Snape would use him as a target for said curses if he turned up to the lesson without his homework, he would have been in bed hours ago. Harry sighed, and reread the last line that he had written, sensing his train of thought slipping away from him. ‘When blocking flame-based curses, the wizard must also consider the environment around them…’ A loud guffaw rang out from the other side of the common room, and Harry desperately focused on his work, clutching the quill so hard that he was in serious danger of snapping it. ‘The environment around them, or…’ Harry’s eyebrow twitched in irritation as another booming laugh echoed through the room. ‘Around them, or…’ 

Another laugh cut through his concentration, and Harry threw down his quill in irritation, looking up to glare at McLaggen in the corner of the common room. Over the past couple of days, the seventh-year had taken to setting himself up within earshot of Harry, and then loudly lamenting the outcome of the game against Hufflepuff to anyone who would listen. The pompous twat had been steadily pissing Harry off more and more, and it was getting to the point where Harry knew he was going to snap, New Year’s resolution to control his temper be damned. 

“Of course, Potter was probably too preoccupied with the thought of Wealsey in the hospital wing,” McLaggen declared loudly. “I told him that he should have let me captain the match, but he wouldn’t listen!” Harry growled, and clenched his fists. “Of course, that probably cost us the game…” Harry snapped and reached for his wand, a dozen creative hexes springing to mind. He was just about to hit McLaggen with a malicious little jinx he’d learnt from the half-blood prince that left the victim experiencing painfully similar symptoms to an advanced state of the Clap, when his view was blocked by a wry grin on a familiar freckled face. 

“I know he’s a prick mate, but he really isn’t worth it.” Ron smiled, easing himself into the chair, as glanced down at Harry’s parchment. “You know Snape will kill you if you don’t get that essay written.”

“Honestly, Ron, Professor Snape is hardly going to kill Harry over an essay,” Hermione chimed in, moving to sit next to Harry. Harry and Ron met each other’s eyes, silently communicating in solidarity against Hermione’s relentless faith in the teaching staff of Hogwarts. 

“Well he is the DADA teacher this year,” Harry pointed out with a grin, lowering his wand and deliberately forcing thoughts of hexing McLaggen from his mind. It had been the twat’s good luck that Ron and Hermione had returned from their prefect rounds at precisely the right time. Harry’s grin widened as he looked at both his best friends together. “It would be a shame to break tradition.” Ron snorted, and leant back languidly in his chair, ignoring Hermione’s look of disapproval at the action. Harry smiled at his friends, a warmth settling in his chest that had been missing since before Christmas. He had missed this. He had missed spending time with Ron and Hermione, just chatting together, being friends. It might have taken a poisoning to bring them back together, he thought to himself ruefully, but it had taken a Troll to make them friends in the first place; perhaps the three of them just needed something terrifying to remind them why they needed each other.

“Don’t tempt fate,” Ron warned sagely, around a yawn. “Better get writing.” 

Harry bent his head back to the parchment, trying to force the goofy grin of his face. He had loads left to write, and he could not afford to get distracted by his friends. 

“Have you finished yours already, Ron?” Hermione asked somewhere above Harry’s head, as he tried to recall the incantation for the blistering hex for his essay. It was really testament to how tired he was that he couldn’t remember immediately; he had been considering using it on McLaggen during dinner.

“I’ve got an extension on homework, Hermione,” Ron said triumphantly, rocking back in his chair. “Because of my recent hospital stay.” Harry could hear the smile in Ron’s voice, as he continued writing. “Madam Pomfrey said I need to pace myself.” Harry frowned at his quill, and paused in his writing for a minute to peer up at his best friend. 

“Mate,” he said seriously, “do you really think that’s going to matter to Snape?” Ron froze at Harry’s words, the smile dropping from his face almost immediately. He rocked forwards on his chair, landing on all four feet with a resounding thud. 

“No,” Ron said quietly, face ashen-white, looking almost as ill as he had in the Hospital Wing. “I don’t think it will.” He ran up to the dormitory, and came back minutes later with a haphazard pile of notes, parchment, quills and ink. Harry turned back to his work and began scribbling furiously, very aware that he’d need to have his work finished if Ron wanted to copy off him. Hermione started grumbling about avoiding homework until the last minute, even as she pulled Ron’s notes towards her and started to help him make sense of his half-formulated plans. 

An hour or so later, Harry finally put his quill down. He leant back, stretching his arms above his head as he gazed around the empty common room, now deserted except for him, Ron, and Hermione. He yawned loudly, grimacing as his jaw clicked. Hermione looked up at him. She had been leaning over Ron’s shoulder, reading his work closely so that he didn’t make any mistakes and dictating the odd line to help him finish more quickly. She smiled tiredly at Harry, and beckoned for him to hand the essay over for her to proof-read. Harry did so with a grateful smile; he didn’t think that it would take her too long.

He was certain that he’d written everything that he knew about flame-based curses, and had even thrown in a little bit about freezing charms, which he thought would help to strengthen his argument. Really, he should have had this homework done ages ago; he was normally alright at Defence, even if essays were never going to be his strongest suit. But he had been a bit distracted of late, what with Ron’s poisoning, and wondering what the hell Malfoy was up to, and Dumbledore’s lessons, and the memory he still needed to get from Slughorn. Not to mention the fact that he hadn’t seen Slytherin for weeks and was half-suspicious that the other boy was up to something evil, and half-terrified that he wasn’t. 

“It’s good, Harry,” Hermione told him a few minutes later, pushing the parchment across the table towards him. Harry shook himself from his thoughts and smiled at his best friend. “You could probably elaborate a bit more in the section on protective potions, but I doubt Professor Snape will penalise you too much for that.” Harry pulled the parchment back towards himself with a tired groan, ignoring Ron’s scoff of amusement. Harry rolled his eyes in irritation; the Chudley Cannons would win the League before Snape missed an opportunity to bully Harry in some way or other. He scribbled another couple of sentences describing the sensation and effects of flame-freezing potions. As he wrote, his mind wandered back to first year and that horrible race for the stone. Harry smirked to himself, and wondered if Snape would have any idea how much he had inadvertently helped with Harry’s homework. 

“I’m done,” Ron declared, throwing down his quill and rubbing his hands over his eyes. Hermione drew the parchment towards her to read over it, and Ron leant back in his chair. “I don’t even care if I get a ‘T’,” he announced tiredly, “I’ve got three feet down on parchment. It’s finished.” Hermione tutted in disapproval, as she continued to read, making small marks with her quill. “I thought you’d have finished ages ago, mate,” Ron said through a yawn, looking over at Harry, “didn’t we cover some of this in the DA?”

“Some of it, yeah,” Harry relied quietly, reading over the last few lines that he’d added for the fifth time, his vision starting to blur, before putting down his own quill. “But I just didn’t get round to writing it. It’s been a bit mental round here.” Ron winced and nodded sympathetically. 

“Fair point.”

“Here,” Hermione interrupted them both, shoving Ron’s parchment into his hands. “Your handwriting is huge, Ron, I really don’t think Professor Snape is going to let you get away with that.” Ron rolled his eyes, and blushed a little; he looked over the notes and groaned in dismay, before dutifully pulling out a fresh sheet of parchment to begin rewriting his work.

Harry sighed, and pushed his glasses up briefly to rub the bridge of his nose. “You’ve been making work for yourself, Harry,” Hermione told him sternly. “This obsession of yours is getting a little out of hand. You haven’t stopped talking about him for weeks.”

“I just don’t like not knowing what he’s up to,” Harry remarked grimly, thinking back to Malfoy at the Slug Club Christmas Party. There was something going on with Malfoy and Snape and the Death Eaters, and Harry just new that it had something to do with the attacks on Ron and Katie. 

“I thought you told that Slytherin bastard to piss off?” Ron asked blearily, resurfacing from his work for a brief moment of respite, before Hermione’s glare made him start scribbling again with purpose. 

“What? Malfoy?” Harry asked in confusion, not aware that he’d told the blond git where to get off any more so than he usually did.

“No, Sal,” Ron replied abstractly, quill still flying over the page. “Thought you told him to leave you alone.”

“Oh.” Harry said quietly. He hadn’t actually been thinking about Sal, but that was another point of concern. “I mean, I did. But…” He trailed off absently, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. 

“What is it, Harry?” Hermione asked in concern, taking her eye off Ron’s parchment to face him. 

“I just don’t know what he’s up to, whether he’s off making up some evil plan, or whatever.” Harry winced at just how weak that particular statement sounded, and Hermione looked at him shrewdly. 

“Is that all?” She asked wryly. 

“Yes… I mean. Well, no.“ Harry rubbed his hand over his forehead in frustration. “I mean…” He took a deep breath. “I think… I might have made a mistake.” He spoke quickly, avoiding Hermione’s gaze as she reached over and put an arm around his shoulders. 

“Oh Harry,” she said gently. “What do you mean?”

Harry shrugged and looked off into the fire. It had started to properly burn down, seeing as it was getting on for midnight, and he suspected a house elf would have long since been round to put out the last of the flames, were it not for the three of them still occupying the common room. 

“I’m not sure,” he admitted eventually, still not meeting Hermione’s eyes. “Just something about this all feels wrong. I keep waiting for him to make a move, but he disappeared off the map for weeks, and then just appeared in the kitchens last month.” Harry sighed and rubbed at his eyes, underneath his glasses. Merlin, he was tired. “I saw him in the dungeons with Malfoy a couple of times,” he continued, “but he just went straight back to the kitchens afterwards. At first I thought he was involved in whatever Malfoy was doing, but the timings just don’t add up.” Besides, he’d had Dobby and Kreacher following Malfoy for a couple of days, and neither of them had reported that Malfoy and Sal had been up to anything. He looked back at his friends to see that both Ron and Hermione were watching him intently. 

“But he’s Slytherin,” Ron said in confusion. “We established that, right?”

“I’m not sure,” Hermione said quietly, looking straight at Harry. “I mean, he speaks Parseltongue, and he’s with the Founders, but I’m just not sure he is the Salazar Slytherin I’ve read about. Maybe something happens to make him into a dark wizard. His behaviour just doesn’t make sense. He’s not some blood-purity obsessed tyrant; he’s just a nervous, scared…”

“Slave,” Harry finished her sentence for her, nodding miserably. “I know.” He sighed and stared at his hands. “I think I might have fucked this up.” He looked up at his friends, expecting to see them judging him harshly. What for, he wasn’t quite sure. Perhaps for being too impulsive and jumping to conclusions, for threatening a terrified, abused person his own age. Or perhaps for being too weak after the fact, for giving in too easily to sentimentality and letting himself be manipulated once again by Salazar Slytherin. He didn’t know what to think. His instincts were telling him the Sal wasn’t an immediate threat, but his brain was telling him not to dismiss him out of hand. 

“Hang on, mate,” Ron said quickly, homework all but abandoned in the face of the new conversation. “He’s Slytherin, I thought we said we couldn’t trust him. He might be trying to lull you into a false sense of security.” Harry’s gut twisted as Ron echoed the doubts that had been at the back of his mind since he’d first figured out Sal’s true identity, that day in the library.

“You didn’t see him, Ron,” Hermione said quietly. “That night. He was terrified of us. I think…” She took a deep breath, her face twisted with guilt. Harry frowned; he too had been dwelling on the sal’s expression as he backed out of the room that night; the terror and misery had seemed genuine. But then again, Harry thought, he was Salazar Slytherin, it could have been an act. “I think Harry might be right. I think we’ve made a mistake.” Harry winced at Hermione’s words, and rubbed at the back of his neck in distress. He really hated not knowing what to do. Usually he found it so simple to see the path forward, to know what he needed to do next. Save the stone, fight the basilisk, stop Umbridge etc. He hated not knowing what the right thing to do was.

“So what do you want to do?” Ron asked with a deep sigh, leaning back in his chair. Hermione looked up at Harry and smiled wearily. Harry felt a rush of affection for his two best friends; he could always count on Ron and Hermione to be there for him, regardless of whatever hare-brained, fucked-up scheme he’d dragged them all into. It had been horrible being stuck between them both this year, torn between the two people who he cared about most in the world. 

“I think we need to talk to him,” Harry said quietly. “Properly, I mean.”

“Didn’t you tell him to fuck off mate?” Ron asked quietly, his tone a little sceptical. “He’s not going to want to sit down with us over a butterbear and a cauldron cake.”

“I know,” Harry groaned, leaning forwards to rub his forehead in irritation. “We need something to make him listen. Something he wants.”

“Careful, mate, you’re sounding a bit Slytherin yourself there,” Ron interjected with a grin. Harry shot him a dark look, and ran his hands through his hair. Ron smirked at him, and Harry gave him the finger. They settled into silence to think about the problem at hand.

“What about that life debt research you were doing Hermione?” Harry asked quietly, after a few minutes thought. “Did you end up finding anything?”

Hermione bit her lip, and looked down at her hands. “Maybe. Well, it might be. But I don’t think it’s right to use information like that against him.”

“Come on, Hermione,” Ron cajoled. “Do you think he’s going to just tell us what he’s up to, because we ask him nicely?” She frowned, and shook her head, looking conflicted. 

“Please, Hermione,” Harry pleaded quietly. She looked at him for a long moment, wringing her hands. 

“Alright, fine,” she said with a huff. “But if he doesn’t want to talk to us, I’m just going to tell him anyway.” She held a hand up against Harry and Ron’s protests. “No, I’m not holding this over his head, it isn’t right.” She waited as the two boys nodded their reluctant agreement. “I found a book in Diagon Alley over Christmas. It’s this brilliant analysis of wizarding case law, well as far as we have case law and legal precedent, I mean. Our entire legal system is really just a series of different ministerial edicts and the odd Wizenagamot vote.” She broke off with a huff, and flushed as Harry and Ron looked back at her blankly. “Anyway,” she continued quickly, “it describes one case of an Unbreakable Vow that both parties wanted to negate; apparently there was a ritual that could be done to invalidate the Vow. I don’t know if it would work the same way for a life debt, I don’t think the magic works the same way, but I’m going to keep researching. There must be a record of the ritual somewhere!” Hermione’s face was flushed, and her eyes were bright and passionate. Harry smiled at her; she was amazing. 

“Hermione, you’re brilliant!” Harry told her and pulled her into a sideways hug. She blushed and patted him gently on the arm. 

“Give me some time before we speak to Sal though. I want to see if I can find anything else in the library.” She told him firmly. Ron yawned loudly, and Harry pulled away from the hug. 

“Thanks,” Harry told them both seriously. He felt so much better after having spoken to his friends, especially now that they had some kind of plan in place. Ron yawned again, and rubbed at his eyes. 

“Bed,” Hermione ordered sternly, and started ushering them all upstairs. Ron took a long look at his essay. 

“Finish it in the morning, mate,” Harry told him with a shrug. Ron yawned again, and nodded slowly in reply, gathering his parchment and notes together. They slowly made their way up the stairs to the dormitory, and then in to bed. For once, Harry was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. 

* * *

It was a couple of days after the professor had come to visit the kitchens to deliver their exoneration, when Draco had finally come back to the kitchens. By the time that Draco had appeared in the portrait hole and beckoned for Sal to follow him, Sal had had plenty of time to stew over the events of the week. Released from the paralysing fear of retribution towards himself, or one of the other slaves, Sal had had time to properly process his feelings about the whole affair. The more he thought about what had happened, the more confused that he felt. Draco had poisoned another student, one of Harry’s friends. Now, Sal was very well aware that Harry currently viewed him as a detestable, odious wretch, but that did not change the fact that Harry and his friends had been kind to Sal, at least for a little while, and so he did not like to think of anyone attempting to harm them. 

But on the other hand, Draco had also been kind to him, generous even; the young noble had been showing him how to utilise his own power, how to become more than some pitiful slave. Sal did not know what to think, or what to do. He was very well aware of what his master would have to say about the whole thing, Christian morality would blame Draco and condemn him for all eternity, but Sal did not think that things were quite so black and white. He also was very aware that he did not have all the facts. Besides which, he did not think that he of all people really had any right to pass judgement on the actions of others. 

As he had lain in bed the night after the professor’s visit, thinking over the events of the past week, his mind had come to one very clear conclusion. Regardless of the moral complexity of the situation, he could not let something like this happen again. The week spent in torment, waiting for the axe to fall had been hellish, and none of the castle’s slaves had been deserving of such a mental torture. It was unfair, and it was unacceptable, and Sal was not going to let it happen again. With a specific goal in mind, Sal set his mind to the task of how best to accomplish it. So when Draco came to collect him from the kitchens that morning, Sal had already developed a plan. He was ready to deal with Draco. 

Sal took a steadying breath, as he reminded himself of exactly why he was doing this. He and Draco were sat in the same dungeon room in which they always met. Draco was in the chair closest to the fire, staring into the dancing flames. His right hand kept twitching up towards his hair, as if to run his hand through it, before stopping at the last minute. Sal watched him closely out of the corner of his eye, taking steady deep breaths. He needed to stay calm if he was going to do this, and he had to do this. He owed it to Mipsy and the others. 

Draco heaved a deep sigh, and scratched at his nose. He opened his mouth, as if to speak, but Sal cut him off.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” Sal asked quietly. 

“What?” Draco froze, and then slowly turned to face Sal. 

“The poisoning.” 

“What would make you think that?” Draco asked very quietly, his voice little more than a whisper. Sal stiffened at the tone of warning in the other boy’s voice, but he had promised himself that he would get through this. He found himself pushing on, despite the voices at the back of his head screaming for him to be cautious. 

“It’s obvious,” Sal told him, pointedly raising an eyebrow in disdain. His hands were shaking, so he forced them into tight fists; this was not a time for such displays of weakness. Draco pulled out his wand, and Sal’s gaze snapped to the end of it. 

“What do you mean?” Draco asked in a deceptively calm voice. Sal’s heart was threatening to break from his chest with the force with which it was pounding, but he refused to back down. 

“You turned up early to the k-kitchens that morning,” Sal began slowly, cursing himself for his stutter. He took a deep breath, and slowly relaxed his hands from their fists. Draco flinched, and his wand jumped in his hand. Sal took another deep breath, and continued. “You’ve been avoiding me ever since.” Draco looked up at him, and Sal forced his face to remain as emotionless as possible. “It’s obvious.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Draco began, but Sal interrupted him again.

“Don’t try and lie to me,” he said quietly. He paused for a long moment, and mustered up all his courage to deliver his next line. He had practised this all of last night, and a lot depended on his delivery. “I mean, I am Salazar Slytherin.” Draco flinched and lowered his wand, putting in into his pocket, and curling inwards on himself. Sal sat, frozen, waiting for the other boy’s reaction. There was a long moment, and then Draco slumped forwards in his chair, his head in his hands. Sal let out a long, slow breath of relief.

They sat in silence for a few minutes; Sal was waiting for the other boy to make the next move. He needed Draco’s confession, otherwise this was all for nothing. Finally, Sal heard a sniffle, and saw that Draco’s shoulders had begun to shake. Sal winced at the awkwardness of the situation; he rarely cried in front of anyone else, and had certainly never received any comfort when he had done so. He had no real experience to fall back on for such situations and wasn’t sure what to do. He stared at his hands, and hoped that Draco would stop very soon.

“I-well, I” Draco haltingly began, sniffing back tears, as he sat up and rubbed angrily at his eyes. “I had to. You don’t understand!”

“I thought the nobility only did what they wanted,” Sal answered sarcastically, with a raised eyebrow, even as his throat tightened with terror at his own audacity. “You said that Malfoy’s only answered to themselves.” Draco sighed, and sat back; he had managed to dry his eyes, although his breathing still fluttered out in quick gasps. 

“Everyone has to answer to somebody, Sal,” Draco answered wearily, as he finally gave in to his nervous tic and ran a hand through his hair. He looked like he had aged several years in a moment. Sal sat back slowly, processing the new information. 

“You have a master?” he asked in disbelief. This changed things substantially. Draco nodded miserably, and rubbed at his lower arm. 

“The Dark Lord- he- I, he ordered me to do something…” Draco began in a faint whisper. Sal took a deep breath and let that revelation wash over him. Draco had told Sal all about the Dark Lord Voldemort and his ideas on blood purity; it shouldn’t be such a surprise to hear that Draco was in his service. Draco coughed gently, and continued. “Weasley wasn’t meant to…It wasn’t meant for him.” He hissed in irritation, and sunk his head back into his hands.

“You don’t have a choice,” Sal stated quietly. Draco had told him all about the last wizarding war and the actions of the Dark Lord; Sal had no doubt that such a man would not be a kind master. Draco flinched, and shook his head slowly. “And you weren’t trying to harm a student?” Draco shook his head again, this time much more emphatically. “Or the ladies Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw? Or Professor Snape?” Draco shook his head at both, still firmly covering his face with his hands; he looked the picture of misery. Sal took a deep breath and girded himself against the oncoming conversation. He leant forwards and waited until Draco hesitantly looked up, and met his eyes.

“You won’t do anything like that, again,” Sal ordered grimly, his heart beating wildly at speaking in such a way to anyone, let alone Draco. He stared resolutely into Draco’s eyes, ignoring the horrible desperation that he saw there. “Whatever your master has you doing, I don’t care. You won’t be that reckless again. Nothing that will incriminate the house elves, do you understand?” Sal was staring unblinkingly at Draco, whose hands had begun to shake. There was a sickening thrill at the back of Sal’s mind at the thought of someone like Draco being scared of him. He quashed it down with all the force that he possessed; he was not going to be like his previous master, he was not going to enjoy the pain of others. 

“They’re only house elves,” Draco objected tentatively, “they hardly matter.”

“They matter to me!” Sal exclaimed loudly. Draco looked at him out of the corner of his eye for a long moment, and then nodded his agreement. 

“I won’t do anything that will implicate either you or them,” Draco promised, a slight gleam coming back to his eyes, “if you swear not to tell anyone about this.” Sal looked at him steadily, and then nodded; he had not been planning on doing that anyway, he owed Draco that much. 

Draco heaved a long sigh, and then held out his hand to Sal. Sal took it, and they shook on the deal. It was the first time in a long time that a wizard had treated Sal so much like an equal, like someone to be respected, to be feared. Sal smirked at Draco, steadfastly avoiding the part of his brain that was telling him not to antagonise his betters, and forced himself to play the part that Draco expected of him, the part of the manipulative, pureblood wizard Salazar Slytherin. Draco looked at him steadily, a kind of wonder entering into his eyes. Sal looked back as emotionlessly as he could, and then Draco suddenly smiled widely, his eyes alight with the flush of success. Sal frowned back at him, not understanding the sudden change of mood. Draco stood up, and headed over to the door, turning on the threshold to offer Sal a low bow. Sal froze, staring in wonder at the other boy. 

“Lord Slytherin,” Draco addressed him politely, turning on his heel with a snap of his robes and promptly striding out of the room.

Sal sat there for a few minutes, fighting back against the sense of panic that threatened to overwhelm him the second that Draco had left. Had he done the right thing? Had he overplayed his hand with Draco? Sal had been up all night, trying to think of the best way to protect himself and the house elves, and he thought he had found the best solution. Over the past few weeks, he had come to know Draco quite well. He knew how the other boy thought, and he knew that a show of power was the best way to get him to toe the line. Sal had gone through every lesson that Draco had given him on politics and manipulation, and had mustered up his best attempt to perform the role of Draco’s beloved Salazar Slytherin. 

He sat forward, putting his own head in his hands, mirroring Draco’s posture from earlier. Draco’s parting words echoed in his mind, and he shook his head in disbelief. He let out a shaky laugh, as the sheer enormity of what he’d just done washed over him. He looked down at his hands, and they were shaking badly. He let out another laugh that turned into an almost hysterical giggle. Moments later, he was gasping in deep gulps of breath, letting out deep barks that could have been either sobs or guffaws, but Sal could not tell the difference. He couldn’t quite believe what he had accomplished. He sat there for a long time, revelling in the sheer ridiculousness of his actions. Finally, when he had managed to calm himself down, he slowly got up and left the room. 

The corridor outside was quiet and it was cold after spending so long sat in front of a roaring fire. Sal shivered and hurried along the long expanse of cold stone to the kitchens. He slipped in, and headed back to his bedroom, hoping to have five minutes alone, before he was needed to help with the lunch rush. A few days after he had first been sent to the kitchens, the book that he had stolen from the library - that he had left in Professor Snape’s quarters - had appeared on his bed, hidden under his pillow. There had been a note left inside the cover, but it was in modern English, so Sal had no way of reading it. He hadn’t dared ask around to find out who had left it there, in case news that he was learning to read got back to his master, but he had a strong suspicion that Professor Snape was behind the gift. 

Since then, Sal had been spending a little time every day, trying to improve his reading. He was coming along nicely, and could even get through whole paragraphs at a time, although his head always ached terribly afterwards. After his meeting with Draco, he wanted to get some time in with the book, to feel like he was doing something familiar and comforting, rather than defying every lesson of correct social conduct that had been beaten into him over the years. He rushed back through his bedroom, and was just about to slip the book from its hiding place under the mattress of his bed, when a small noise behind him grabbed his attention. Dropping the mattress quickly and spinning around, Sal came face to face with an unfamiliar house elf. Instead of the usual toga, the elf was wearing a maroon jumper, and had several woolly hats piled on top of his head. His bright, protuberant eyes were staring very seriously at Sal, and he had his spindly arms crossed sternly in front of his chest. 

“Can I help you?” Sal asked politely. Most of the house elves usually left him to Mipsy, but occasionally they would come and ask his help with something or other that required an extra pair of hands. 

“You should be staying away from Master Malfoy,” the elf replied firmly.

“Excuse me?” Sal’s stomach dropped in fear. Had Draco calmed down from his earlier panic and sent someone to threaten Sal already?

“Master Malfoy is not being a nice wizard,” the elf replied quietly, and moved further into the room, towards Sal. “You should not be trusting him.”

“Who says I trust him?” Sal asked slowly, not wanting to admit to anything. If this wasn’t an elaborate power play from Draco, it was conceivable that this elf had been sent by his master. He was not going to admit to anything that might incriminate him, particularly meeting with students of the castle. He shook his head in confusion. “I’m sorry, who are you again?” The house elf drew himself up proudly, and smoothed out his jumper. 

“I am Dobby,” the elf replied proudly, “and I am a free elf!” Sal’s stomach fell completely to his feet, and he immediately bowed his head. He had not been expecting to see anyone free in the kitchens. Truth be told, he had honestly thought that all house elves were slaves, he had come to treat them all as equals without thinking; he berated himself for jumping to conclusions, and immediately apologised to the elf for his rudeness. There was a long moment of silence, but Sal didn’t dare move out of his bow.

“Why is you…bowing to Dobby?” the elf asked tentatively. The sheer amount of confusion in his tone encouraged Sal to look up. The elf was standing awkwardly, twisting the bottom of his jumper and shifting from foot to foot. 

“I th-thought” Sal began, but didn’t know how to finish his sentence. He was hardly about to tell a freeperson that he had believed them to be a slave. That was the height of rudeness, and would undoubtedly earn him a beating, or at least some form of punishment; Sal was very well aware that the elves were far more magically powerful than he could ever dream of being. A heavy silence fell over the pair of them, as they both shifted awkwardly under the gaze of the other. Finally Dobby broke it, and spoke tentatively to Sal, as if not sure what to make of him. 

“You is not needing to be bowing to Dobby,” he said slowly, as he inched towards one of the empty beds in the room. “Dobby is being an elf. You is being a wizard.” Sal looked at the elf in confusion. 

“But you’re free!” He objected quietly, and found his eyes wandering back down to focus on his feet. He had no idea what he was meant to make of this conversation, and he had no reference for how he was meant to behave. He forced his gaze upwards when the elf did not reply; Dobby looked at him with wide eyes, before suddenly bursting into tears. 

“You is not being free?” Dobby asked, water streaming from his eyes. 

“I’m a slave,” Sal admitted quietly, sitting down slowly on his bed. 

“You is not belonging to Master Malfoy?” Dobby asked desperately, eyes wide and solemn, as he continued to weep openly. 

“No…” Sal admitted cautiously. “My master is Lord Gryffindor.” Dobby sank onto the bed closest to him in relief, and began sobbing even more loudly. “Dobby…” Sal began quietly, not sure at all how to deal with the elf in front of him. He rubbed at the back of his neck, and tried to think of something to say. 

“Master Malfoy is being a bad master,” Dobby told him seriously, his sobs starting to abate. “He is not being a nice wizard.” Sal looked at him in confusion, and Dobby hesitantly continued, as he wiped at his eyes and blew his nose with the hem of his jumper. “He was being the son of Dobby’s old master.” 

“He was a bad master?” Sal asked quietly, sensing Dobby’s distress. Dobby nodded miserably, before stiffening and running over to the nearest wall and banging his head loudly and repeatedly against it.

“Dobby, stop, please!” Sal begged desperately, disturbed by the display. He had seen some of the house elves punish themselves over his weeks in the kitchens, but that usually amounted to no more than a missed meal, or an extra set of chores. Sal did not understand the compulsion at all, firmly believing that if someone wanted him punished then they could damn well do it themselves, but he had not seen anything as violent as Dobby’s display. Finally, after almost a full minute of Sal’s increasingly frantic pleas, Dobby staggered away from the wall, and sat down on the bed woozily. 

“I thought you were free?” Sal asked quietly, and Dobby winced, rubbing at his forehead. 

“I am,” Dobby replied, with a self-deprecating smile. “Sometimes I is having trouble remembering.” Sal nodded his understanding. When he had first been made a slave, he had often had the opposite problem. 

A dull creak sounded through the room, making them both jump, as the bedroom door swung slowly open. A couple of elves, clearly drawn by all of the commotion, peered into the room from the doorway. 

“Oh,” one said with a quiet sigh, spotting the house elf on the bed. “Hello Dobby.” The elves at the doorway looked relieved and left the room immediately, with no more than a quick nod to both Sal and Dobby. Sal had heard enough stories from Mipsy about Dobby’s behaviour; he supposed that such the other elves must just consider such strange antics to be as a matter of course for the free elf. 

Sal waited until the sound of footsteps had faded before continuing. “How do you know I’ve been meeting with Master Malfoy?” Dobby looked up at Sal, as soon as he spoke. There was a dark bruise already forming across the elf’s forehead. 

“I is following him for the Great Harry Potter,” Dobby replied. His beaming smile looked even more disturbing when his head bore such a terrible bruise. 

“Since when?” Sal asked, his stomach dropping with dread, trying not to stare at Dobby’s forehead.

“It is being a couple of days.” Sal dropped his head to his chest, as Dobby continued. “I was seeing you talking this morning.” 

“And did you hear what we said?” Sal asked as casually as he could manage with his heart resting somewhere just below his jaw. If Dobby had heard them discussing the poisoning, then all of his effort with Draco would have been for nothing. Draco had promised that the first thing that he did whenever they met was to put up a silencing charm, but Sal was not certain that he could trust Draco’s magic against that of a house elf. 

“No,” Dobby admitted quickly, “I was not being able to hear from outside the room.” Sal let out a deep breath of relief, and tried to will his heart to stop pounding with the force of a blacksmith’s hammer swig. Thank God in heaven and all His angels, Sal thought in sheer relief, his secret was safe. He looked up to see that Dobby was eyeing him shrewdly. “You should not be meeting with Master Malfoy,” he repeated again, his eyes deadly serious. Sal felt his throat tighten at the warning. 

He took a deep breath, and weighed his options. He could just promise Dobby that he would stay away from Draco, but he had no real intention of ceasing his lessons with the other boy. Whatever Dobby might say, Sal had put too much effort into his lessons with Draco to just abandon them, even if the other boy was a bad master. But if Dobby really was watching Draco at all times, then the minute Sal went to another lesson, Dobby would know that he had lied. In which case, if Dobby was really reporting back to Harry, then Sal would just look incredibly suspicious, and he did not need that kind of attention, particularly when Harry had already threatened him and accused him of being a dark wizard. He took a deep breath, and decided to simply tell the truth. 

“I have to, Dobby,” Sal admitted quietly. “He’s helping me”. Dobby looked at him with what could almost be pity, and Sal tried to think of a way to turn the attention away from himself. “Why are you doing this for Harry, anyway. You’re free, aren’t you?” 

“Harry Potter is a Great Wizard!” Dobby exclaimed with a beaming smile. “He is freeing me from my master!” Sal jolted in surprise; he had not expected Dobby to say that. It did, however, seem to be in character for Harry; the other boy had been attempting to help free Sal from his own life debt, before he had discovered the true darkness in Sal’s soul and declared that he had wanted nothing more to do with him. 

“He freed you?” Sal asked softly, and Dobby nodded, still beaming. “Then you understand.” Sal spoke quietly. “I need to keep meeting Master Malfoy. He is…helping…me.”

Dobby looked at disbelief, and shook his head. “You should not be trusting him,” 

“You don’t understand. I don’t trust him,” Sal said sternly. “I need him.”

Dobby nodded slowly, and a sly smile spread across his lips. “I is understanding,” Dobby replied quietly, and patted Sal’s knee. “But you must be being careful.”

“I will,” Sal promised quickly.

Dobby patted his knee again, and then stood up. “I cannot be staying any longer,” he said with a small sigh, “I is leaving the watching of Master Malfoy to Kreacher, and he is not being very good at it.”

 “But Dobby,” Sal rushed to say, before the elf left the room. “You can’t, I mean.” Sal took a deep breath, and tried to find his words, “You can’t tell anyone about this. Not even Harry.” Dobby looked very hesitant, and shook his head gently. Sal felt his stomach drop. “Please” he begged, “my master can’t hear about this. No one can know!” Dobby still looked reluctant, and Sal dropped to his knees in desperation. “Please, Dobby.” He begged, and put his forehead to the floor. A wrinkled hand fell on his head, and Sal looked up. The elf looked severely uncomfortable, but he nodded his agreement. Sal let out a breath of relief that came out more as a sob, and Dobby disapparated away. Sal took a series of deep breaths as he slowly pulled himself to his feet, and allowed himself to collapse back on the bed, his mind whirring. 

A few hours later, and Sal had not left his room all day. He had been moping in his room ever since Dobby had left, thinking over his interactions with both Draco and his former house elf. Sal was not certain if he’d done the right thing with either of them, or if he could trust them to do as they’d promised. He’d been fretting all afternoon, pacing the floor and replaying the conversations over and over in his head. Finally, Mipsy came in to drag him out for dinner. He ate his meal half-heartedly; he was not hungry, but he adamantly refused to waste any food. Mipsy eyed him throughout, and fixed him in his seat with a stern look, as soon as he went to leave the table. 

“You is not going back to mope in your room,” she told him firmly. “It is not being good for you.” Sal sighed, and rolled his eyes in exasperation. She shot him a disapproving look, and he sighed again, this time in resignation. “You is leaving the kitchens tonight.” 

“And where exactly am I meant to go?” Sal muttered sarcastically, “It’s not like anyone else wants the pleasure of my company.”

“That is not being true, and you is knowing it,” Mipsy told him firmly. He met her eyes in surprise. “You is having your friends in the library.” 

He tried very hard to protest that they were hardly his friends, and that he did not even know if they still wanted to see him, seeing as he had been avoiding them all week, but Mipsy wouldn’t take no for an answer. Half an hour later, he found himself nervously walking into the library, still not entirely certain how he had been bullied into such a position. He spotted Lord Godric and Rowena at their usual table, pouring over a couple of heavy tomes, seemingly in some kind of intense discussion. He hesitantly walked towards them, not quite sure what to expect. Rowena was whisper-arguing quite vehemently with Lord Godric, but broke off immediately when saw Sal. 

“Sal!” she declared loudly, as Sal approached the table. Madam Pince shot her a very stern look, nd she blushed slightly. Sal let out a quiet sigh of relief; he had not been certain if they would want to see him. There had even been a ridiculous part of his mind that had been telling him that neither of the ladies would even recognise him at all, and that they would laugh him out of the library the minute that they saw him. He smiled broadly as he reached the table. “Come an join us! Godric and I were just discussing this fascinating text!” Rowena exclaimed brightly, indicating to a book, as Sal took his seat. “It’s fortuitous that you have joined us at this precise moment. I think that this topic will be of great interest to you!” Sal glanced over at Lord Godric, and saw that even he had a slight smile on his face. Sal felt a strange warmth settle in his chest at the thought that these people were happy to see him. He smiled back at them broadly. 

“I am afraid, I cannot read it, Rowena,” he admitted quietly, his smile still firmly on his lips. His reading had improved significantly, but he highly doubted that he could make sense of something that Rowena found intellectually stimulating. Lord Godric stiffened at Sal’s use of Lady Ravenclaw’s first name, but did not object to it, as he had done the first few times that Sal had used it in his presence. 

“It’s a treatise on druidic magic,” Rowena said with enthusiasm. “There are some fascinating descriptions on pagan rituals.” Sal tensed at her words, unsure as to why she was mentioning such a topic to him. Did she know that he still practised the old ways? He rubbed at the back of his neck, as she turned towards him. “There is a particular focus on intent and resolution in the performance of the rituals. It seemed very fitting in regards to your own theory about intent being supreme in the process of spell casting.” 

Sal relaxed back into his chair, relieved that they had not found out one of his best-kept secrets, and smiled at Rowena. 

“I agree. I quite like being proven right,” Sal said with a grin. 

“It has to happen sometimes, I am sure,” Rowena replied, smirking. Lord Godric looked between the two of them with quiet disapproval.

“One text hardly proves a hypothesis,” he said sternly, “especially not one concerning pagan traditions. We ceased to practise heathen magic for a reason, do not forget.”

“Of course,” Rowena replied, shooting a quick glance over to Sal. “The Church is obviously the supreme knowledge of all magic.” Lord Godric looked at her approvingly. 

“I am glad that my earlier comments have convinced you, dear lady.”

“Naturally, Lord Godric,” Rowena said with a smirk. “That is of course why the Church has yet to discern the magic to turn one into an animal.” She smiled widely, and raised an eyebrow at the young lord. “The same magic that the druids were performing for centuries.”

“According to legend only!” Lord Godric shot back. The two of them quickly descended into a debate on the usefulness of pagan tradition in modern magical theory, clearly continuing an earlier conversation. Sal held his tongue; Isolde had taught him the importance of animal transformation in some rituals, but had not revealed to him how the process worked. He doubted very much that she had known herself. Besides, even if he did know the theory, he would hardly announce it to his master’s son. There was a substantial difference between the theory of pagan magic and the actual practise of it, and he did not want to be condemned for daring to dabble in heathen arts. 

The argument continued for what felt like hours, moving away from pagan magic and onto animal to object transfiguration. Sal had long since deduced that Lord Godric and Rowena could argue about whether or not the sky was blue, should the mood take them, and so left them to their own devices. He pulled the book towards himself, and tried to see if he could pick out a few familiar words. He had managed to read a full sentence about the festival of Samhain, which made his heart ache with familiarity, when Lady Hufflepuff joined them at the table. Her arms were laden with books, and she plonked them down in the middle of the table with a deep sigh of relief, cutting off the whispered argument between Rowena and Lord Godric. 

“Sal!” Lady Hufflepuff exclaimed with a bright smile. “Just where have you been all week?” She turned to face him with her hands on her hips, but her lips were spread in a wide, warm smile. 

“I was in the kitchens, Lady Hufflepuff,” he admitted quietly, with a slight, sheepish twist to his lips. “It was very busy last week, and I could not get away.”

Lord Godric leant forwards in his seat, and huffed out a loud sigh. “Of course, the poisoning, I am sure you were all busy being questioned by the headmaster.” Sal bowed his head to conceal his frown of irritation. It was not the lord’s fault that he immediately assumed the worst of the kitchen staff; it was, after all, the most logical conclusion. But it still stung a little at how quickly Lord Godric had blamed the castle’s slaves. 

“On the contrary, Lord Godric,” Sal replied tightly. “The school staff immediately exonerated us all.” Now that was a lie, but it made Sal feel a little better to see the look of shock on the young lord’s face. Sal assumed that his master was still holed up in his quarters, grumbling about Dumbledore and the many indignities that he had been subjected to by the headmaster; Sal highly doubted that any of his master’s household had any clue whatsoever what the kitchens had or hadn’t been told. Sal was actually surprised that they were even aware of the poisoning at all, but he had also come to learn how expediently rumours and news spread around Hogwarts Castle, and he suspected that this was no exception. 

“You see, Godric!” Lady Hufflepuff exclaimed with a pretty smile, as she took her seat. “Didn’t I tell you that it couldn’t possibly be one of the house elves?” She turned to look at the young lord, and he blushed bright red as soon as she turned her smile on him. Sal smiled gently, glad that someone didn’t immediately think the worst of the slaves. Lord Godric beamed stupidly at Lady Hufflepuff; Rowena clenched her fists together, and glared down at the table. 

“You did indeed, dear Helga,” he replied with a nod, and Lady Hufflepuff turned back to Sal. 

“I just knew that none of those dear elves would hurt a student!” She continued, smiling brightly. “They’re such sweet, simple creatures.”

“What do you mean, my lady?” Sal asked, his tone just a touch shy of snappish. There was something in the way that she spoke about the house elves that made him feel a little uncomfortable. She turned to him in surprise, and Lord Godric sent him a stern look, silently warning him to mind his manners.

“Well they are such dear little things,” she replied. “They so love to serve the castle. I went down to visit them when we first came here, and they couldn’t do enough for me.” Sal frowned, and looked down at the table, feeling very uncertain. He didn’t like the way that she made the house elves seem so…pathetic, as if they were not strong, intelligent beings in their own right. He bit his lip, and reminded himself that it was not his place to challenge her. The ladies had granted him so much freedom to converse with them casually on academic matters, but he was certain that that leniency did not extend to outright contradiction of their opinions. 

“You have something to say?” Lord Godric challenged, and Sal looked up in alarm. Both ladies and the young lord were watching him very closely. Lady Hufflepuff’s face was a terrible mix of confusion and alarm. Sal swallowed and looked back down at his hands. 

“It’s j-just…” Sal took a deep breath, and steeled his nerves; Lord Godric had, he reminded himself, asked. “The elves have been very good to me, they’re very powerful and intelligent.”

“Oh Sal!” Lady Hufflepuff exclaimed, leaning over the table, expression aghast. “I did not mean to slight them, I am sure that they are wondrous beings! I was complimenting their dedication to their service!” Sal swallowed and looked back to his hands. 

“But they’re more than just their service to the castle,” Sal objected quietly, staring desperately at his knuckles.

“I’m not sure that that is the case,” Lady Hufflepuff replied thoughtfully. Sal forced himself to look up at her face and the expression of deep concern that she wore. “But you must understand that they are not human, Sal.” He flinched and tore his gaze from her face, bowing his head to hide his disbelief and anger. “All of my research suggests that they are descended from a species of the common Hob. They are little more than simple fae; their sole purpose in life is to serve witches and wizards.” Sal stared resolutely at the table, and forced his anger down with a efficiency born of long experience. “I don’t mean to upset you, Sal, but you have to know that beings such as they can never be our friends.” He glanced up at Lady Hufflepuff; she looked exceedingly regretful, as if she were spouting such horrible words to help Sal. She met his eyes and smiled gently. “They are dutiful servants, but they will never be anything more than that.” 

Sal took a deep breath, and forced his hands underneath the table, so that no one could see how much they were beginning to shake. Rowena was watching him very closely, concern filling her eyes. Lord Godric looked stern, if not a little sad. “I understand,” Sal replied quietly, and forced himself to ignore the stinging in his eyes. It had been stupid to assume that such brilliant, intelligent people would ever think of him as an equal, let alone as a friend. He himself was only a slave; to most, his sole purpose in life was to serve others. If they thought so lowly of beings as brilliant as the house elves, then Sal didn’t want to hear what the nobles truly thought about him. 

He wanted to leave there and then, but he hadn’t been dismissed, and he didn’t want to draw any attention to the fact that Lady Hufflepuff’s words had upset him. He hardly wanted them to know that he had been daring to hope that they might see him as more than a simple slave, a “dutiful servant” that came running when they called. His stomach sank, and he closed his eyes briefly as he thought of all the foolish thoughts that he had contributed to their discussions. They had probably only been humouring him, laughing behind his back at the idiotic slave who thought himself intelligent.

He sat silently over the rest of the meeting, letting their words wash over him. Lady Hufflepuff kept shooting him concerned glances, and Lady Ravenclaw kept trying to bring him into the discussion, but he was too lost in his own thoughts to do more than smile blandly and murmur his agreement to whatever had been said. When they finally parted for the night, Sal hurried down to the kitchens as quickly as he could, and went immediately to his bed. He sat quietly for a long time, contemplating pulling out his book and doing some reading practise. He knew that he should, and that he would feel better for doing something constructive, but he just didn’t have the stomach for another challenge. For once, he wanted something in his life to be easy, to go the way that he wanted without any complications. He sighed, and curled up under the covers of the bed. 

As he lay huddled in the warmth of the blankets, he reminded himself that he should be grateful, that he currently had a damn sight more in his world than he had done in a long time, and that he did not need the approval of anything or anyone beyond his own conscience. As hard as he tried to think that way, his errant mind would not let him be. His thoughts kept returning to the look on Lady Hufflepuff’s face, as she told him that she could never be friends with a servant. He tried to muster up the rage that he had felt earlier to quash the sickening sense of betrayal that had been growing in his chest all evening, but instead he felt instead only a terrible weariness. 

Sal knew that he would not be able to sleep, and he racked his mind trying to devise a suitable distraction. He thought again about the book lying hidden under his bed, but he couldn’t bring himself to face his own inadequacy for a second time that day. He was too tired, and too empty to read. Instead, Sal curled up tighter in the blankets, and promised himself that he would go back to it tomorrow. Or perhaps the day after. 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading :) Please comment and leave kudos if you enjoyed this!
> 
> The next chapter should be up within the next couple of weeks!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, incredibly sorry for the long hiatus.   
> Thanks for baring with me! I got sidetracked with another fic and it took me ages to get back into the headspace to write this. 
> 
> TWs this fic for physical abuse/violence and panic attacks/ PTSD. It's as intense as this fic will probably get, so please handle with caution. Additional notes at the end for the particulars. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Sal woke up slowly, his back cramping and his head heavy from a night of tossing and turning. His jaw ached from his temple to his chin, and he knew he’d been grinding his teeth in his sleep again. He often did that when he was stressed. He reached up a hand to massage some of the tension away, as he shuffled his way into the bathroom to wash for the day. The past week had not been going too well for him, and his nights had been invaded by an ever-changing series of nightmares. Sal blearily supposed that this was just the latest way for the fucking world, or Almighty, or whatever to torture him; usually he was far too exhausted to dream. But his mind had been occupied of late by flashes of green light and a chilling high-pitched laugh. He shuddered at the thought. The light was familiar; his previous master had used it on a muggle once. She’d died instantly, soul fleeing from her body with a whispered word. It was no wonder he was having nightmares about that day. The laugh, however, was new- yet another fun way for his brain to fuck him over.

The bathroom floor was freezing beneath Sal’s feet, and he shivered as the chill ran up through his toes. He yawned widely, and his jaw screamed at him in protest. He winced and rubbed at it sluggishly, as he walked over to the stone basin and turned on the tap. Splashing some water over his face to try and wash away some of the cobwebs clinging to his thoughts woke him up a little, the shock of cold making him gasp loudly. Biting down on a rather explicit curse, Sal forced away the memories of mornings spent breaking the ice on the top of the well and freezing hands hauling bucket after bucket of water, and turned on the hot tap. He grabbed a flannel before stripping and seeing to the rest of his body. Sal could, of course, have used the bath, but he had no doubt that he’d be asleep within minutes if he were anything other than vertical. No, he would brave the basin and hope it woke him up a bit. In the end, half a minute of exposure to the freezing early-morning air was quite enough for Sal, and he was clothed and ready for the day with impressive expedience.

The kitchen was busy, as per usual, with elves rushing to get breakfast ready for the rest of the castle. Sal sidled over to the fireplace and loitered, trying to restore some feeling in, well, in any part of his body at all. He had just begun to feel the stab of pins and needles in his fingers when a very small, very red-faced student rushed in, looking terrified and confused. Sal felt the kitchen pause, although the work continued around him; all the elves were watching this young student out of the corner of their eyes.

“Are yous being okay?” one of the elves responsible for the Ravenclaw tower asked, rushing over to the girl.

She shook her head violently, like a dog fresh from the river.

“No,” she wailed in a truly awful, warbling, high-pitched voice. Sal winced.

“How can wes…” the elf began again, but he was cut off by the girl almost immediately.

“Him!” She declared loudly, pointing a finger at Sal. The whole room froze, and Sal felt his body turn to ice, despite the warmth of the fire. Just what the fuck was he supposed to have done this time?

“Me, miss?” Sal asked numbly, after a long moment.

“He told me to get you and take you to the seventh floor!” The girl wailed again. Sal tried not to wince, but her voice was one of the most painful things that he’d ever heard. It took a while longer than it really ought to have done for his brain to process just what she’d said, but he was tired; his thoughts were heavy with too many disturbed nights and too many disturbing dreams. Eventually though, his brain forced coherency out of the girl’s warbled words, and his stomach sank to his feet.

 “Who d-did, miss?” he asked, as his heart started to flutter in his chest. Did his master want him back? Had he finally remembered his fuck-up of a slave? Or was Lord Gryffindor just in another vile temper and looking for something to beat the crap out of until it was alleviated? Sal tried to take in a breath, but his chest felt painfully tight. It might not be Lord Gryffindor, Sal reminded himself. The seventh floor, he forced himself to think; that could be Harry, or maybe Colin. It was possible; there was no need to panic. He tried another breath, but his lungs refused outright to cooperate. “You’ll be fine.” He told himself. “Whatever it is, you’ve been through worse. You’ll be fine.”

With a great deal of effort, he forced his breathing back under control, and opened his eyes. He hadn’t even realised that he’d closed them. The girl was staring at him, and he knew that she was expecting some kind of answer from him. He didn’t dare admit that he hadn’t been paying attention, so he just nodded dumbly and followed her out through the portrait hole. They wandered through the deserted halls of the castle, Sal trying (and failing) not to feel like a man on his way to the gallows. All too quickly, Sal found himself walking down the familiar corridor where he had learnt to read with Harry and his friends, all those weeks ago. He felt sick. What if his master had found out? Oh God. His master knew, he knew what Sal had been up to and Sal was going to pay. Fuck. Why had Sal thought that he could get away with keeping such a huge fucking secret? Fuck. His frantic thoughts sounded a jarring cross rhythm to the slow beat of his lagging footsteps. He didn’t want to enter that room; he didn’t know what he might find. 

The girl paused in front of the familiar stretch of wall, and Sal took a deep breath. His hands were shaking, but that was hardly anything new. He could do this. He’d have to do this, he had no choice. He had to face the consequences of his actions. He had no choice... Fuck. He couldn’t do this. But then he was following the girl through the door and to whatever Fate had planned for him this time. He walked like a man on his way to execution, dread weighing like a millstone around his neck. He was barely into the room before he stopped completely, taken aback.  

The room within was not at all what Sal had expected. Instead of the small, comfortable sitting room, complete with lurid wallpaper and comfy sofas, where Colin had taught him his letters, the room that greeted Sal was cavernous. The vaulted ceiling stretched high above him, complete with intricate patterns carved deep into the ancient stone. That wasn’t the only difference from the room he had expected, however; it was an absolute mess of clutter and debris. Instead of comfortable chairs, there were piles upon piles of strange and wonderful items, all thrown together like wood on a bonfire. Broken owl cages lay on top of slightly charred, ink-stained desks, and broken mirrors propped up listing stacks of cracked cauldrons and empty portrait frames. Wardrobes vomited books out onto the cold stone floors and armchairs spat up clouds of dust every few seconds, filling the air with a strange, musty scent that tickled at Sal’s nose. There was a sense of pure chaos to the place, as if magic herself were hiding around a corner, waiting to knock over a stack of books or upend a statue the minute that no one was looking. It was amazing, and it was almost enough to distract Sal from the reason that he was standing there in the first place. He took a deep breath, trying not to cough on the dry, dusty air, and followed the girl into the room.

They were not walking for very long before Sal heard a very soft hissing noise. He glanced to the side and saw, to his complete surprise and slight terror, a pile of wands. There had to be at least a dozen, all heaped unceremoniously in a small basket, lying under a table just ahead of him. Sal’s heart clenched with sheer _want_. The feeling was almost palpable. He tried not to stare at the basket as they walked; he did not want this girl, inattentive as she seemed, noticing his gaze and reporting back to his master. Reading was one thing, coveting a _wand_ was quite another. Still, he couldn’t help the terrible feeling of need that encompassed him, as they drew level with the wands and the hissing grew louder. The girl didn’t seem to notice; it seemed like the noise was just for him. It was almost as if they were calling to him, telling him to take them up, put them to use, and make them do magic again. It took every ounce of his self-restraint, but he resisted the urge. He forced himself to look straight ahead, although he still saw, out of the corner of his eye, one of the wands let out a sluggish stream of golden sparks. His heart called painfully for it, but he knew there was nothing that he could do. He walked on.

They rounded a corner and came to an abrupt stop. Right in front of them was the backside of a dishevelled wizard, the rest of whom looked as if it were being eaten whole by a very large, very ornate cabinet. The girl who had been leading Sal coughed, an incongruously deep sound for such a young child, and the figure jumped. There was a loud bang and some muffled cursing from within the cabinet, and then the figure seemed to rally and extricated itself with a familiar grace.

“Draco,” Sal greeted coolly, his terror turning to relief and then to annoyance with a fluidity and speed that would have been disturbing to Sal, were he not completely bemused by the entire situation.

“Lord Slytherin,” Draco greeted smoothly, with a delicate inclination of his head. The girl beside Sal let out a grunt and quickly followed suit. Her hands had grown to almost double the size that they had been only moments before, and her shoulders had become far more muscular than any eleven year old’s ought to be. She was, in fact, beginning to look more like a troll than a little girl. Draco cast a disparaging eye over her and tutted, pulling a vial from his robes and levitating it towards her with a quick flick of his wand. “You need more Polyjuice, Crabbe,” he drawled, and waited until the vial was drunk before he turned back to Sal. “My apologies, Lord Slytherin, but certain precautions were necessary.”

“Of course,” Sal agreed amiably, even though his heart had only just returned to its normal rhythm. He did not think that being scared half to death first thing in the morning was ever entirely necessary, but he held his tongue. He was also a bit confused as to why Crabbe, one of Draco’s hulking, brutish friends was currently disguised as a small girl, but decided not to dwell too long on that question. Why anyone would want to be a child again was beyond him - his own childhood had been decidedly unpleasant- but he supposed that some people must have had parents that gave a shit about them. He also had it on the reliable authority of most of the women that he’d met in his life that they had a rather shit time of things, but he supposed it was each to their own. Besides, it was really none of his business.

Sal had also decided to ignore Draco’s use of his supposed title, despite how strange it was to hear.  They had not spoken since the incident with the poison and so Sal had no idea how the land lay between them. Also, Sal kind of liked it. No one had ever spoken to him like that before, with reverence, as if he was someone of note and not some skinny, uneducated brat. It was nice.

“Crabbe, leave us” Draco ordered tersely, and the girl scrambled to obey. Sal was constantly in awe of the way that Draco got people to do things without having to raise his voice, without having to threaten violence or promise retribution. It was actually very impressive. The overall impression of power, however, was ruined by how clearly nervous Draco was feeling. His left foot was tapping an erratic rhythm on the stone floor, and he kept half-raising a hand to his head, as if to run a hand through his hair, before catching himself. Draco did not say a word until the door slammed shut and they were left alone. Almost immediately afterwards, he leant forwards and, with a look that was halfway between desperation and elation, met Sal’s questioning eyes. Sal felt a sudden rush of terror and a high-pitched laugh echoed faintly from the depths of his recent nightmare, a startling bolt of green light flashing across his vision. It was gone almost as quickly as it had arrived, but it left Sal feeling shaken on edge. Sal forced himself to focus on the tightness around Draco’s eyes and the raw spot on his lower lip, still red with the imprint of teeth.  

“I’ve got something to show you,” Draco said in a voice just shy of a whisper, “it’s a secret.” He flushed, and his eyes flickered over to the large cabinet that he had nearly been consumed by only minutes before. “I shouldn’t be telling you, really,” he continued softly. His eyes found a spot somewhere just over Sal’s left shoulder and stayed there with unwavering focus. He swallowed thickly. “But… I think I might need help.”

Sal raised an eyebrow. Anything that could unsettle Draco and his unwavering faith in his own invincibility had to be serious. He hoped this had nothing to do with the snake tattoo on Draco’s lower arm and the mysterious case of the poison that had found its way to Harry’s friend, but he wasn’t that naïve. He found himself thinking that Draco really should have verified that Crabbe had left the room and not just slammed the door before doubling back to eavesdrop. But perhaps Draco had more faith in people than he did. Sal sighed deeply; he really didn’t want to get caught up in the problems of another man and his master, he had more than enough of his own to contend with. But Draco had been helpful to him, and he owed it to the other boy to lend a sympathetic ear, if nothing else.

Across from the cabinet sat a large, plush armchair that may once have been mauve. Sal lowered himself into it, ignoring the plume of dust that it spat at him for daring to do so, and stared over at Draco.

“Why don’t you explain it to me?” Sal asked as gently as he knew how, although his words rang through the air much more harshly than that they had in his head. He took a deep breath and forced aside his growing trepidation, swallowing the leftover terror from his journey upstairs and sternly reminding himself about the virtues of patience and charity. He tried to smile at Draco, and hoped that it looked less like a grimace than he imagined it did.

Draco finally gave in to his nerves and ran a hand through his hair, making it look ever so slightly dishevelled. Sal could only guess at the amount of spell-work that was used to keep it looking so pristine, no matter how much Draco would protest that it was merely good genes. He felt a sudden pang of longing and envy for the way other wizards could just _use_ their magic for such mundane purposes. Draco cleared his throat and regained Sal’s attention with a gentle cough, as he gestured to the cabinet behind him.

“I have been given a task by the Dark Lord,” Draco began haltingly. Sal nodded; he had surmised as much. “It is not an easy task,” he continued, and Sal nodded once more. He had guessed that too- they rarely were. Draco went quiet for a very long moment. His eyes flickered back over to the cabinet and then down to his feet. He brought his hands up to rub at his eyes, as he spoke again. “I don’t think I can do it,” he said in a very small voice, muffled almost to the point of incoherency by the hands covering his face. Sal sighed and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. He was too tired for this; he didn’t need Draco’s worries on top of his own, but he couldn’t just ignore Draco’s obvious distress. Draco sniffed quietly and continued to stare at the floor. Sal’s heart clenched and he immediately damned himself for a sentimental fool. He couldn’t just leave Draco like this.

“What is the problem?” Sal asked in resignation. He tried to avoid the flash of relief that stole its way across Draco’s aristocratic features, before the other boy was able to get his emotions back under his control. Draco let out a deep breath and looked deliberately up at the vaulted ceiling.

“I’ve got to kill someone,” Draco said bluntly, eyes still trained anywhere but Sal’s face. Sal blinked once, then twice. He went to speak and thought better of it for a moment. He blinked again and tried to gather his thoughts into some kind of coherent response.

“I know,” he finally replied. He just hadn’t expected Draco to admit to conspiring to murder quite so openly. Surely even nobles could be executed for that?

Draco jolted as if he’d been struck. “What do you mean, you know?”

“The poison wasn’t exactly subtle, Draco.” Sal replied with a raised eyebrow. Draco barely covered his flinch, but Sal pressed on coolly. “We also had an agreement. Whatever you’re up to, you keep me and mine out of it.” He laughed mirthlessly and shook his head. “I’m not helping you stick a knife in a man’s back.”

“That’s not what I meant!” Draco exclaimed in frustration. “I’m not asking you to do anything like that, alright?” He was almost shouting by the time that he’d finished, and he took a few deep breaths, visibly attempting to restrain himself. Sal’s knuckles which has turned white with their grip on the arms of the chair, slowly relaxed their hold. “I have found another way,” Draco said in a carefully measured voice. “It was my plan all along, really. Only I…I got…concerned…over the time it was taking. The poison was not my best idea.” Sal was impressed that Draco had managed to keep from blushing as he spoke; he had not thought the other boy to be capable of humility.

“My true plan is, of course, far superior,” Draco continued, much more sure of himself. Sal sighed; he didn’t know why he thought Draco might have shed some of the arrogance that he wore like a warm winter cloak, but he couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed. Perhaps he had been hoping that Draco was genuinely asking for help, rather than trying to manipulate him into giving it. Sal sighed and rubbed at the back of his neck. There was a long moment of silence. When Draco did not continue, Sal realised that this was his cue to speak.

“What is your plan, Draco?” Sal asked with a hefty dose of trepidation. He could sense Draco drawing him in like a horse salesman, on a back road, the day after market. He was in grave danger of buying the nag disguised as a prize stallion. Draco beamed, and Sal’s gut clenched in dismay.

“This,” Draco replied casually, rapping nonchalantly against the side of the large cabinet, as if he had not been nearly consumed by the thing mere minutes ago. “This,” he stated grandly, “is a Vanishing Cabinet.” Sal tried to look suitably impressed, rather than confused and suspicious, but knew that he probably hadn’t done a very good job of it. Draco rolled his eyes and continued. “They are built in pairs. There is an identical cabinet in the possession of my allies. In theory, when one places an object in one of the cabinets, it will immediately vanish, and then reappear in the other. It was initially intended for moving supplies between trading points, but since the war they have been much more useful as escape routes for wizards in danger.” Draco pushed against the door and watched as it swung gently on its hinges. He turned and looked Sal directly in the eye. “They can bypass wards, you see?”

Sal breathed in sharply. Yes, he did see. He saw very clearly indeed. He could almost glimpse the image of an identical cabinet, hidden away in some dingy back room, surrounded by dark artefacts and darker wizards. He let the realisation wash over him for a long moment and then exhaled deeply before he spoke.

“In theory?”

“That is why I need help,” Draco admitted. He turned his attention away from the cabinet and back to Sal. “This cupboard is broken and I’ve been trying to fix it.” Draco did not blush, but it was a close call. He even danced dangerously close to an actual sheepish expression, as he continued to explain. “I’ve not had too much success.”

“Hence the poison.” Sal was beginning to see the whole picture now, and it was making him very nervous.

“Yes.”

Sal sighed again. He had to nip this in the bud now. There was no way that this would end well for anyone, least of all Draco. “Perhaps it is for the best,” he said quietly, rubbing at the bridge of his nose to avoid seeing Draco’s reaction. “Leading an army into a school doesn’t sound like the most subtle way to kill a single man.  You’ll still have to wield the wand, Draco.”

“No, you don’t understand!” Draco exclaimed. “If they come with me, I won’t have to.” His words sped up as he continued, tumbling out of his mouth with a lack of the usual grace that Sal had come to expect from the Malfoy heir. “I won’t have to do anything. I don’t think…well. I don’t want…really…but Aunt Bella would! One of them…surely?” He looked at Sal with a desperation that Sal found painfully familiar.

“You don’t want to kill him,” Sal stated calmly. It wasn’t a question.

“I _can’t_ ,” Draco admitted in a whisper, his voice hitching painfully on the last word. “But I can’t _not_. He’s…my mother…and.” Draco’s words tapered out and he stared at the floor. Sal waited, allowing him to compose himself. After a long series of deep, controlled breaths, Draco continued. “This is the only way. I don’t know what else to do. I _can’t_ fail.”

Sal rubbed his temples firmly, trying to alleviate the oncoming headache. Why the hell had Draco trusted _him_ of all people with this bloody revelation? What exactly was Sal supposed to do? If he turned Draco in to the teachers, he’d be risking the life of a boy who had shown him kindness, had helped him when he was in direst need of aid. He’d be risking the life of that boy’s _mother_ , an innocent woman. Could he live with himself if he did that? Surely two lives were worth more than the one that Draco had to take? Besides, even if Sal did come forward, no one would believe him; he was only a slave, and a slave without evidence, at that. He’d be flogged senseless and then made to apologise for the insinuation. He didn’t even know who Draco was supposed to kill. He had his suspicions, of course, but that wasn’t the same thing as _knowing_. But this was _murder_ that they were causally discussing, murder and betrayal of the whole castle, by bringing an enemy into their midst. Could he really condone that? Sal shook his head to clear his thoughts and noticed that Draco was still staring at him intently. He sighed and turned his thoughts away from the moral quandary; it was a moot point anyway.

“How exactly do you expect me to help you?” Sal asked the other boy, tartly. “I don’t have a wand, and I barely know any magic. There is no way on Heaven or Earth that I could do more for that box in five hours, than you could do in five seconds with your magic.”

Draco opened his mouth to contend the matter, as he usually did when Sal referenced his own inferiority. Draco could be very protective of Lord Slytherin’s reputation.

“That’s not what I…” Draco ran a hand through his hair in irritation and then pulled himself to his full height. “I need you to talk to Ravenclaw, to ask for her help. I would count this as a personal favour to the House of Malfoy.”

Sal stiffened in shock. His immediate instinct was to deny all knowledge of Lady Ravenclaw’s existence, let alone any kind of familiar relationship that he could presume upon in such a way, but a personal favour from someone like Malfoy was not something that anyone should sniff at.

“You presume that I am more intimate with Lady Ravenclaw than I really am,” Sal began, but he was cut off by Draco.

“Everyone and their toad knows that you’re holed up in the library with her and the other two nearly every day.” Draco scoffed. “So don’t try that with me.” Sal blinked and swallowed around the rising fear that was gathering like a noose around his throat. Draco seemed to sense that he’d pushed too far and averted his eyes back to the cabinet. “It’s my only chance, Sal. I can’t do this. I can’t…kill,” he whispered desperately, almost to the point of tears. Sal winced in sympathy; he knew that feeling. His former master had made him do things that made his stomach turn to ice, had made him hurt and harm and kill. He hadn’t wanted to, but he’d had to; there had been no other way for Sal. So, really, who was Sal to deny Draco his?

“I can’t do that,” he finally answered shaking his head, “I am not getting her involved in this mess.” Draco frowned and moved as if to speak, but Sal barrelled on. “But I can ask her for some research tips, for her to point us in the right direction.” Draco’s head shot up, eyes widening in half-terrified hope. “I can’t make any promises,” he added quickly and Draco scowled. “I’ll do what I can, but I don’t know how much Lady Ravenclaw will know on the subject, or if she will be willing to help me.” Draco nodded quickly in agreement; Sal strongly suspected that the other boy had reached such a point of desperation that even the slightest chance of help was as valuable as gold. Sal knew that feeling very well.

“Thank you, Sal,” Draco replied, practically beaming. It was that salesman’s smile again, and it was an unfamiliar expression on the other boy’s face.

“Was that all you wanted?” Sal asked stiffly, he was beginning to feel like he’d bought that nag, after all.

“Yes, we’re done here.” Draco stuck out his hand for Sal to shake, which he did, tentatively. “I have to get to breakfast,” Draco added, as soon as Sal had snatched his hand back. “I’ll show you the way out.”

They parted ways at the bottom of the seventh floor corridor, Crabbe falling in line a couple of steps behind Draco’s left shoulder, like a trained dog. Sal began the long walk back to the kitchens with his shoulders up almost to his ears, head staring blankly at the floor. It was useful that his feet knew the path so well that he could walk it by instinct and sense memory alone. His thoughts were preoccupied with the conversation that he’d just had. It was entirely possible that he’d just made a huge mistake. Either that, or secured a very strong alliance. Sal wasn’t sure which one made him feel less safe.

He had barely reached the bottom of the sixth floor staircase when he realised he was being followed. He could faintly hear the soft scuff of shoes on stone, and the swish of fabric at his back seemed too loud to him in the still air of the empty, early-morning corridors. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and a sharp thrill of fear darted its way from his stomach to his chest. He hurried on, forcing himself not to look back over his shoulder. He improvised, making use of the polished metal of suits of armour and the warped glass in ancient window panes to try and steal a reflected glance of whoever was following him. There was no one. The corridor was deserted. Sal took a couple of deep breaths to steady himself. It was possible, of course, that he was just being paranoid. His route back to the kitchens took him perilously close to the entrance to his master’s chambers, and that brought the risk of being found somewhere he was not meant to be, doing something that he hadn’t been ordered to do. Sal twitched at the sound of what he _swore_ was a whisper. He took another deep breath; it was possible that his nerves were simply getting the better of him. He walked on and tried to shake the claustrophobic sense of being watched. The castle was old, he told himself at the soft sound of an exhaled breath.  It was saturated with magic; he tried to think firmly, at yet another swish of fabric. He was letting his imagination run wild. A cough, quickly muffled by a hand, was the final straw. Sal knew he wasn’t just being paranoid; there was definitely someone following him.

He was barely paying attention to the corridors around him now, totally focused on the sounds of his pursuer, the incongruous little noises that were screaming out at him to run, to hide, or to just get away. Up ahead, the corridor turned sharply. Sal took his chance. As soon as he rounded the corner, he ducked behind a suit of armour and held his breath. Hopefully they’d go straight past him, and then he could double back on himself. Whatever this other person wanted with him, it would not be good. It never was. He counted the seconds, eyes tightly shut and ears straining for the sound of movement, but he couldn’t hear anything at all.

“We know you’re there, Sal,” Harry’s voice called from behind the armour, startling Sal so hard that he almost banged his head on the shining gauntlet. Harry sounded tired and a little concerned; Sal’s breathing automatically grew shallower. “Can you come out, please?” Harry called softly. “We just want to talk.”

Sal frowned and peeked out from behind the armour. There was a sudden swish of fabric, and Harry’s invisibility cloak was pulled away to reveal Harry, Hermione, and the red-headed boy that Sal had seen all those weeks ago, when he’d first been discovered in the kitchens. Ron, a distant part of Sal’s mind supplied for him- Ginny’s brother: good with panic attacks. Sal stared blankly at them all for a moment and then slowly crept out from behind the armour. He kept his back to the wall and a sizeable distance between them and him. It wouldn’t give him much protection if they were using wands, but if someone went to grab him, he would have a better chance of getting away. He and Harry had not parted on the best of terms; whatever Harry wanted with him could not be anything good.

“We just want to talk,” Harry repeated gently, as if talking to a spooked horse. Sal tried not to roll his eyes; they never just wanted to ‘talk’.

He eyed them warily, inching further away into the empty space of the corridor.

“About w-what?”

“About last time,” Harry said gently, still eyeing Sal like a foal about to bolt. “I- we, we wanted to apologise.”

That stopped Sal short. Complete confusion was better than anxiety, if nothing else.

“W-why?” he asked cautiously. For not beating him there and then? For not turning him over to his master immediately? No one ever apologised to Sal, and certainly not in ways that _he_ ever thought were good for him.

“We- well we might have had the wrong impression,” Harry admitted sheepishly, rubbing at the back of his neck. “We, well- I might have jumped to conclusions and, well…look we just need to talk to you, alright.”

“How d-did you find me?” Sal asked tightly. Harry’s hand twitched towards a scrap of parchment sticking haphazardly out of his shirt pocket, as if it had been stashed there in a hurry, but it was back by his side in less than a moment.

“It doesn’t matter. Look, can we talk?” Harry rubbed at the back of his head again, messing his hair up into even more of a bird’s nest.

Sal studied the three of them closely. Harry looked tense, but not angry, not like last time, anyway. Hermione was wringing her hands nervously and biting at her lip. Ron, Sal didn’t know well enough yet to get a proper read on, but he just looked sad and a little tired. They seemed sincere enough. If not, he could probably still make a run for it. Sal nodded once, sharply, and cast one last glance down the corridor and his escape route.

“Right,” Harry heaved out a deep breath in apparent relief. “So, I wanted to say sorry. I think I might have gone a bit too far last time.” Hermione winced slightly; Sal caught the expression out of the corner of his eye, as he continued to watch Harry closely. “We thought you were someone, who, well in our time-” Hermione cut him off suddenly with a loud cough. “Well, I can’t say much because of the whole ‘messing with time’ thing, but we’re at war and…” Hermione cut him off again with another loud cough and Harry rolled his eyes in exasperation.

“How can he explain any of this stuff if you won’t let him say anything, Hermione?” Ron chimed in, rolling his eyes. She shot him an unimpressed look and his face blushed fuchsia, as he looked a little…apologetic? Sal wasn’t entirely sure.

Hermione shook her head in irritation. “We can’t say too much. We might risk causing irreparable damage to the timeline. But, I can say this. We thought you were someone dangerous, Sal, and we’ve realised that we might have been wrong.” Sal waited in silence as the three of them stared at him. What the hell was he supposed to say to that?

“You’re not…” he said quietly, staring at his feet. “You were r-right, I am d-dangerous. I’m evil.” He hunched his shoulders up to his chin and waited for the fall out. He wasn’t going to lie to them. They were right to be wary about him. He was damned and he was dangerous.

“I bloody…” Harry hissed, spinning around and running a hand through his hair. Sal flinched at the action and slid a little further away. “Why? Why would you just say that? That doesn’t- that doesn’t make any bloody sense!”

“You know I…” Sal shot a glance at Ron, but he assumed that the others would have probably told him Sal’s dirty little secret already. “You know that I speak the serpent’s tongue.” He was so fucking confused. What was Harry’s point, why were they going over this again?

“What? That’s not…” Ron looked very confused. “Of course you’re a Parselmouth. What’s that got to do with the price of cauldrons in Casablanca?”

Sal stayed quiet and stared at his feet; he was not going to have this conversation.

“You thought that was why we…” Hermione’s voice trailed off and she looked a little ill. “Because you’re a Parselmouth?” Sal stared resolutely at the floor. He was cursed with the language of the Deceiver; it was proof that he was a dangerous, dark wizard. What other reason did they need?

“That’s not…” Harry shook his head, looking a little sick. “That’s not it. It’s what that makes you…” He trailed off, looking at Hermione and her stern gaze. He huffed in exasperation. “I can’t explain why. Look, we want to trust you, okay?”

Sal glanced up in shock. He had not been anticipating that.

“But, look. You keep doing really suspicious things,” Ron added, crossing his arms.

“Like hanging around with Draco Malfoy in the Room of Requirement at half past six in the morning,” Harry added. Sal froze; no one was supposed to know that he’d been meeting up with Draco, what if it got back to his master? “You can see why that makes it hard for us to trust you,” Harry added grimly. Sal’s heart dropped to his knees. Fuck, what if they knew what Draco was planning? Sal could be implicated now! Fuck, he was so screwed. Fuck!

“I…he…” Sal scrambled for an excuse, something with enough truth to it that the others would just leave him alone and not dig any deeper. “He th-thinks I’m Salazar Slytherin,” is what he actually ended up saying. He had no idea what had made him go with that, with the truth. That was the heart of Sal’s Draco problem anyway and had been since the moment the other boy had laid eyes on him.

The rough clang of a door opening cut through the startled silence that had fallen over the group. They all spun around to look at the interruption. Two men had just stepped out from the door to what Sal could have sworn was a broom cupboard, the taller of the two was muttering angrily under his breath at the other. His robes were of fine quality and of elegant red and gold. They were also terrifyingly familiar. Sal flinched and tried to duck behind Harry, ice cold panic coursing through him. He had known he was near the entrance to his master’s chambers, but he had thought it was a few corridors away. He’d thought he’d be safe. Harry swore softly and fumbled to get the cloak around them as the two men approached, but it was too late- they’d been seen. Sal closed his eyes so tightly that his vision flashed white. For one desperate second, he prayed that he hadn’t been noticed, but it was to no avail. When he snapped his eyes open, Dunstan was striding towards him, looking furious. His master looked startled, but then his eyes snapped to Sal, and his face went pale with fury. Sal flinched again; his hands were shaking.

“What do you think you’re playing at, you disobedient little bastard?” Dunstan asked, striding forward and reaching around Harry to grab Sal harshly by the elbow. He dragged Sal away from the group to stand in front of his master. Sal went numb and his mind went blank. Even if he’d been able to find any words to explain himself, however, it wouldn’t have made any difference. Dunstan’s backhand crashed into the side of his face and sent him stumbling, dizzy into the castle wall, before he’d even had a chance to open his mouth.

“Hey!” Harry exclaimed angrily. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Sal took a couple of deep breaths, sliding to his knees and steadying himself with a single hand against the nearby wall, before he dared to look up. When he did, he was shocked to see Harry, Hermione and Ron all standing between him and Dunstan, wands drawn.

“Leave him alone,” Harry warned quietly. His voice was icy and rang with a heavy warning. Sal shivered, despite himself. He was beginning to see just why Dobby had been so in awe of the wizard.

“Begging your pardon,” Dunstan replied tersely, without a hint of begging in his voice at all, “but this little brat has been hiding from me for days- avoiding his work, the ungrateful little whelp.”

Sal felt himself flush in anger. That was so blatantly untrue; the prick be damned as a liar. Sal hadn’t been avoiding anything. Hell, he hadn’t seen his master, or any of his servants for that matter, in a good few weeks. He knew he hadn’t; he’d been enjoying the reprieve, counting the days before it ended. Sal knew all too well that good things never lasted, not for the likes of him, anyway.

“Well, you’re not taking him anywhere,” Ron announced loudly. Sal realised he’d missed a good section of the conversation, and cursed himself for being an inattentive fool.

“That’s not really any of your business now, is it lad?” Dunstan sneered, nastily. While Harry and Hermione clearly came from well-off families, judging by their carefully tailored, clean robes, their friend was obviously not so fortunate. He was hardly a peasant, of course; his clothing was too fine for that. His robes were a little too worn to be new, but they were far too fine to have been woven at home. The son of a wealthier farmer, perhaps? Regardless, it was clear that hr didn’t merit the same level of respect as Harry, and that Dunstan knew it.

Harry stepped forwards, raising his wand in fury, but was cut off by a sharp crack and a shower of red sparks from the tip of his master’s wand.

“You will stop this this instant, children,” Lord Gryffindor ordered, his voice like ice.  He frowned at the wand points focused on them as if they were nothing more than well carved sticks. “Lower your wands immediately. This boy is my slave and you are interfering with my property; you have no more business here.”

Harry’s eyes blazed with fury, but he glanced over at Sal and his expression faltered at whatever he saw there. Sal shook his head minutely, pleadingly. He wasn’t sure what to expect of Harry and his friends. He thought that he’d driven them away for good with his unholy serpent speech, but their earlier apology had sounded sincere, as if they actually wanted to help him. Sal didn’t know what to think and he hardly dared to trust them, but hope was a strong force, and his eyes pleaded with Harry not to push the matter any further. It would only rile his master up even more, and that would not end pleasantly for Sal. Lord Gryffindor did not handle challenges to his authority very well. Slowly, Harry lowered his wand. The other two followed suit, looking sick. Hermione’s eyes were flooding with angry tears

Sal’s master turned to him and fixed him with a look that chilled him to the bone and set his heart pounding with terror. “You, boy,” he threatened darkly, “will pay for your disobedience.”

Dunstan stalked forwards, shouldering Ron out of the way and pulled Sal to his feet, his grip like a vice around Sal’s arm. Sal went stiff with terror, and stopped breathing altogether for a long moment. Sal kept his head down, not daring to look up and see the faces of the students. He knew what a spectacle he made. The grip around his arm tightened and Sal cried out in surprise and pain as Dunstan yanked him harshly away from the group and away down the corridor. Sal tried desperately to keep his feet under him as he was dragged along at an unrelenting pace. His master strode furiously ahead of them, boots clapping loudly against bare stone and echoing in the empty hallways.

They walked further and further down through the castle, and the stones beneath his feet grew colder and shinier, worn down with years of footfall. The corridors were deserted; it was breakfast time. Most of the students were usually eating in the Great Hall by that time, but there were always a few exceptions; someone would wake up late or have to double back to the dormitory for some forgotten item, but there was no one about as Sal was dragged through the school. Sal found himself wishing for someone to be around, though he had no idea what good it would do; it wouldn’t change what was about to happen to him. He closed his eyes and tried to disappear into his own head, but the grip around his arm was keeping him painfully grounded in the present. Finally, his master began to slow, peering through doorways as he searched for something. The floor felt like ice beneath Sal’s feet, and he shivered; they were in the dungeons. His master finally came to a stop in front of a thick wooden door, and indicated to Dunstan to go inside. Sal’s heart leapt to his throat, constricting painfully, as his breath fell from his lungs in ragged pants.

Then there was an empty room and an iron hook in the wall. Sal dragged his feet and begged, wild with panic, but Dunstan’s grip was as unyielding as stone. A few words from his master and Sal was shirtless and chained by his wrists, toes scrambling to find purchase on the floor, the weight of his barely supported body dragging agonisingly down on his shoulders. He was breathing so quickly that he was starting to feel light headed, as he stared at the damp stone in front of his nose. For one horrible second, time seemed to hold still, and Sal’s heart all but stopped with terror. Then the air split with a sharp crack, and his back was on fire. Another crack and he jerked forward with the force of the blow. He let out a soft whine and tried to brace himself for the next blow, but it arrived almost immediately and took his breath away. Fuck. His master wasn’t holding back, Sal realised, as a fourth blow crashed across his shoulders. The tell-tale trickle of blood meandered its way down Sal’s right side. That last one had broken skin.

It had been a long time since his master had wielded the whip against him. Normally the task fell to servants with far more time for such trivial things as the punishment of disobedient slaves. But there was a reason that Sal was so terrified of the man who owned him, and it was not just that he could kill Sal without a second thought. Lord Gryffindor wielded a whip as if the blows came from the hand of the Almighty, Himself. Every lash fell with a calm righteousness that made Sal cringe almost as much as the pain, and they didn’t abate until his master was satisfied that he’d flogged Sal to absolution.

The air continued to crack with every lash of the whip, and Sal groaned louder and louder. One blow fell low on his back and whipped around his right hip, as he instinctively tried to twist away from the onslaught. A scream tore its way through his throat, and he let out a garbled sob. Another fell almost on top of the one before it, and Sal’s vision went white. This wasn’t right, he thought dimly to himself. Something was different, his master wasn’t slowing down. Usually his master would have started sermonising by now, coating each lash with the weight of his disdain, forcing Sal to wait in terrified expectation for the next, inevitable blow. It was its own cruelty, but at least it gave him a moment’s reprieve. It wasn’t the relentless force of blow after blow that fell on Sal like a storm on a cottage door. For one moment of icy clarity, Sal realised that this might be it, and that his master just might not stop this time.

His eyelids were flickering and his dim focus of the stone wall before him was starting to grow hazy.  His throat felt torn and raw from screaming, and his every breath was torture. Blood dripped trickled steadily down into the top of his trousers and his back blazed with agony. Another lash fell, and Sal jerked violently where he stood. There was a sickening popping sound, and white hot pain shot through his shoulder. Sal screamed again, begging incoherently for mercy through gasping sobs. The lash fell one more time, and everything went white. Sal wasn’t sure if he had passed out, but when his vision cleared, the whipping seemed to have stopped. Sal could hear his master behind him. Lord Gryffindor was panting harshly, as if he had been fighting an immense battle, but his voice came out strong.

“I hope you learned your lesson this time, whelp,” his master bellowed as he strode forward and grabbed Sal by his hair, forcing his head back at an unnatural angle. Lord Gryffindor was seething with anger. “I have far more pressing matters to deal with,” his master hissed just above Sal’s right ear, “than a worthless, insubordinate slave- you ignorant, pathetic, little brat.” Sal cried out as his hair was yanked again. “Disobey me once more, and I will have you strung up and flogged every day for a week.” Sal whimpered in terror. “Do you understand me?” his master hissed, yanking once more at Sal’s head. Sal gasped out a ‘yes’, and his hair was released. His forehead smacked heavily into the wall in front of him, but he barely felt it. He was in agony, with his back torn to shreds, but his master’s threat broke through the haze of pain clouding his thoughts. It wasn’t unheard of for slave’s to die under the lash, and another whipping would kill him, let alone a week’s worth. He understood perfectly what his master was threatening him with.

He sobbed brokenly into the wall, as his master stepped away from him, praying to any deity that would hear him that the whipping was finished, and that he’d be let down. Footsteps sounded behind him, walking away, and Sal tensed, waiting for the crack of leather to being once more. Instead, there was a hurried, muffled exchange between his master and Duncan, followed by the sound of the door swinging shut. Then there was quiet, the only sound in the room Sal’s ragged breathing and his choked sobs. He didn’t know how long he hung there. His sight was dim and beginning to fade around the edges. Every breath that he forced into and out of his lungs was sheer agony. He might have passed out, he didn’t know.

Eventually someone appeared at his side, fussing over him in a high-pitched, panicked voice. Sal flinched when small hands touched him, and a hoarse cry fell from his lips. The hands withdrew, as if they’d been burned, and then the voice was back, talking to him softly and reassuringly. Mipsy, some part of his mind supplied vaguely. Safe. He held onto that thought as magic flashed around him and his hands were released from the chains. He could trust Mipsy, she wasn’t going to hurt him. She continued to talk to him as she laid him down on the cold floor of the dungeons, but her words sounded fuzzy and distant to him. His arms were still above his head, muscles cramping and frozen where they’d been forced to take his weight for so long. His right shoulder had long since gone numb, but as soon as Mipsy tried to move it, it flared with agony. Sal’s scream was cut off and his eyes rolled back into his head, as the tension fled his body and he passed out cold on the dungeon floor.

He drifted in and out of consciousness, thoughts hazy with pain and confusion. There was Mipsy, panicked and crying at his side. Then a tall man with dark hair, angry and brandishing a wand. Sal flinched away in terror, and then his vision faded once again. He stirred into awareness to find himself moving, being carried by strong arms, as clipped words flew by over his head. Then, darkness overwhelmed him once more. The next time his eyelids flickered open, he was lying in his bed in the kitchens, a glass of water and several potions bottles lined up on a small table that sat directly in his eye line. He stared blearily at it for a moment, and then cast his gaze blearily into the room behind the potions bottles, trying to blink away the confusion. What the hell had happened to him? He slowly tried to sit up and suddenly Mipsy was at his side, telling him to lie down and that he needed to rest. He tried to explain that he was fine, that he didn’t need any rest, but his voice trailed off as he noticed the bandages wrapped around his chest.

“What happened?” he asked faintly and Mipsy ran a comforting hand over his head, smoothing down his hair. He suddenly felt sick, terror coursing through him and then the hand in his hair wasn’t Mipsy’s but his master’s, and he was cold and petrified and in so, so much pain. A hand grasped at his and then a low, calm voice was in his ear, telling him he was safe, that it was over, telling him to breathe.

“Professor Snape?” Sal asked blankly, trying to slow his breathing as the room around him came back into focus. The professor was by his side, his hand firmly placed on top of Sal’s helping to ground him in the present. “Why are you here?”

“One of the elves found you in the dungeons and found Mipsy,” Sal flinched as the professor spoke, his memory was coming back to him in fractured bursts, and he felt sick. “You were too injured for her ability to heal, so she came and enlisted my aid.” Professor Snape’s was calm and detached, his words filtered through a mask of unemotional professionalism, but his hand tightened over Sal’s ever so slightly as he spoke. Sal felt an unexpected rush of warmth in his chest; he had assumed that the professor had cared about him on some level, but it was nice to know that that hadn’t just been the wishful thinking of a child, desperate for some kind of father figure.

“Thank you,” Sal replied softly and was startled to find that his throat didn’t hurt. He glanced up in shock.  Professor Snape was watching him closely, a slightly disapproving look on his face.

“I’ve been feeding you potions since yesterday afternoon,” he said tightly. “I’ve done the best that I can, but I am no healer. You would be better to go to the Hospital Wing, but I doubt you are any more amenable to that this morning than you were yesterday.”

Sal frowned; he didn’t want the Hospital Wing. He didn’t want some random healer poking around at his back, to have to face their disdainful glares and tolerate strange hands touching his scars. No, he didn’t want that at all. The thought made him feel sick with panic.

Sal lay quietly for a few minutes, pondering what the professor had said. He’d been found yesterday afternoon, which must have meant that he’d been hanging there in the dungeons for a few hours, at least. He felt sick. His master hadn’t come to let him down; he’d been completely forgotten about. His throat tightened with panic and he struggled to breathe once more. Two voices, one sharp and low and on squeaky and kind urged him to calm down and counted his breaths for him until he was once more under control.

“Thank you,” he said softly to both Mipsy and the professor. “I’m sorry you had to…” he trailed off indicating to the bandages and potions bottles.

“Do not be being ridiculous,” Mipsy told him sternly, putting her hands on her hips. “You is needing help, that is what we is being here for.”

Sal looked down at the blanket, idly tracing the hem. As he moved his hand, a sharp pain rain through his shoulder and his arm spasmed. The professor was at his side in less than a moment, running his wand over the injury.

“Will you not rethink your ridiculous decision not to go to the Hospital Wing? I have done what I can for your back and shoulder but you really should see Madam Pomfrey. Your shoulder was dislocated for several hours and there may well be damage beyond my ability to heal.” Professor Snape’s tone was sharp, and his words harsh, and Sal cringed away from both him and whatever spell was flowing from his wand. The professor sat back immediately, regarding Sal heavily. It wasn’t anger or irritation, or even pity, in his eyes as he spoke his next words, more a kind of grim understanding. “I thought not…” the professor sighed and turned to Mipsy. “Perhaps we should content ourselves with the fact that this morning, at least, we his accidental magic does not assault us for merely making such a suggestion.”

“Wait, what?” Sal asked in utter confusion. Accidental magic? What on Earth was that? He grimaced as another spark of pain shot through his arm, and a low throb started to make itself known across his back. He had no idea what was going on, and that made him feel deeply uncomfortable.

Mipsy just shushed him as she reached over and handed him a vial of potion. “You is being due your next potion. You must be drinking this one now,” she told him sternly, glaring at him until he downed the whole thing. “It will be making yous sleepy, but you is needing rest to heal.”

Sal felt the magic hit him as soon as he finished swallowing. A wave of warmth flooded through his body, followed by the sudden, overwhelming scent of valerian. He spluttered, but his eyes were already beginning to droop. Whatever was in the potion, it was potent.

“Thank you Mipsy, you have done very well,” Sal faintly heard the professor say, as his eyelids slid shut.

“He is being a good boy, Professor Snape,” Mipsy replied gently, as she ran a hand over his forehead, “I would be being looking after him without yous asking me to.” Sal’s head felt very heavy, and it drooped down further into the pillow, the words resonating with something at the back of his mind, but the thought slipped away before he could catch it. The room was silent for a long moment and then then the professor cleared his throat quietly. Sal felt a slight pressure on the back of his hand as the professor patted it once, softly and tentatively, and then sleep stole Sal away.

He stayed in bed for the next few days, under Mipsy’s orders. He had tried to protest that he had done more with worse injuries in the past, and that had been without painkilling potions or expert medical help, but that just made her look sad and angry, so he tried his best to be obedient and accept her help. Professor Snape had also come back a couple of times to drop off more potions, but his visits were very fleeting, snatched moments between classes and meals. Sal understood that they would probably come to a stop as soon as Sal was considered fully healed, but he enjoyed them anyway.

His back was healing slowly, helped by the bruise cream and healing balm that Mipsy helped him to apply every few hours. Professor Snape had used a spell to seal the wounds, so there was little chance of infection. Once the swelling went down, Sal knew he’d be right as rain. He hadn’t seen the extent of the damage (Mipsy wouldn’t let him near a mirror) but he knew that it had been bad. His arm was also still twinging every now and then, but Sal kept that to himself. The first time he had mentioned how numb it had gone before Mipsy found him, Professor Snape started a long lecture on potential nerve damage and nearly dragged him bodily to the Hospital Wing. It took a lot of persuasion on Sal’s part to be spared the pain of that visit, and he was not about to risk it again for the sake of a bit of pins and needles.

By the time that he had been in bed for four days straight, Sal had had enough. Mipsy refused to let him so much as sit up until the professor had given him the all clear, and so Sal spent the few hours before breakfast practically itching to get up and moving about. Thankfully, the professor judged him healed enough to be allowed out of bed, so long as he didn’t push himself too hard. Sal couldn’t help but grin at hearing that. It was one thing to be allowed to sleep in, to stay in bed at one’s own pleasure, it was quite another to be forcibly constrained there.

As soon as the professor left, Mipsy ran him a bath and he took a good, long soak in the hot water. The bandages around his torso were made impervious to any external substances, so he was able to submerge himself completely, without fear of them getting wet. The warmth was so relaxing to his aching muscles that he nearly fell asleep again, but he shook himself awake at the last minute. He was not surviving a whipping like that, just to drown in his own bathtub. When he was finally done there was a slight pink tinge to the water that Sal tried very hard not to think about. He dressed quickly and wandered back into the bedroom, debating what to do with himself. He would ordinarily go and help Mipsy with her work, but there was more chance of it snowing in Hell than of her allowing him to do any work. He also flat out refused to leave the kitchens. Although he knew, logically, that the chances of his master catching him somewhere he was not meant to be were very slim, he didn’t dare risk it. His master’s threat still rang in his ears. A bit of entertainment was not worth his life. In the end, Sal decided on practising some reading. He very carefully, and very gingerly, leant over to take his book from its hiding spot.

There was a sudden crack behind him, and he flinched violently. The familiar walls of his bedroom disappeared and he was in the dungeons once more, waiting for the whip to fall, the horrific snap of leather echoing through the tiny room. Then he was back in the kitchens, breath coming to him in small, pained gasps, as he stared into a pair of protuberant, and exceedingly apologetic, eyes.

“Dobby,” Sal managed to wheeze out, as he tried to calm himself down.

“I is being so very sorry,” Dobby apologised frantically. “I is not thinking. I is so sorry.”

Sal took a series of deep breath and nodded at Dobby in acknowledgment. It was hardly Dobby’s fault that he was a cowardly mess who flinched at the mere memory of a whipping.

“Can I help you, Dobby?” he asked politely. It wasn’t that he had a problem with the other elf _per se_ , but he was very tired and a little more shaken than he cared to admit. He just wanted to be on his own.

“I is thinking you might be wanting to talk,” Dobby said quietly. Sal’s blood froze and he schooled his features into what he hoped was a polite smile, as he lowered himself onto his bed.

“What about?”

“About what has been being happening,” Dobby replied calmly, head tilted slightly in challenge. “You is not being talking to anyone about it.”

“Well, it’s not really worth talking about, is it?” Sal said in the most apathetic tone he could muster, looking down at the bed. “I disobeyed my master, I got p-punished.” He shrugged and winced as the action pulled at the wounds on his back.

“It is not being right,” Dobby said quietly, voice thrumming with some emotion that Sal couldn’t quite place. The elf walked over and lowered himself onto the bed next to Sal, sitting just out of arm’s reach. “You know it is not being fair.”

“Since when is anything fair?” Sal scoffed, shooting a bitter smile at the elf. “Besides, it was my own fault. I was supposed to be in the kitchens, my master ordered me there. I shouldn’t have disobeyed.”

“And you is thinking that is why you was being whipped?” Dobby asked him derisively. “You is knowing it is not. He is giving you that order weeks ago.”

Sal shrugged again. “I still should have obeyed it. I should have obeyed him. And I shouldn’t have been talking to Harry and the others. I’m not supposed to do that.” He picked idly at the blanket with his left hand. His right had been a little slow to respond for the past few days.

Dobby sighed deeply. “You is being hurt because you is being there,” Dobby told him sadly. “You is not being stupid, Sal. You is knowing this.”

Sal felt vaguely nauseous at Dobby’s words, and he couldn’t look up to meet the elf’s gaze, which he could feel focused on him completely. It was if the air between them was charged, something forbidden and dangerous resting just out of view. “It’s not- I mean-“ Sal stuttered out before trailing  off. He did not know what to say. Of course he knew that he was often punished for things that weren’t _directly_ his fault and, on the odd occasion, for things so far beyond his control that it would be laughable were it not so terrifying, but it was quite another to just go ahead and say so. Sal had never dared to question his whether his master’s punishments were just, not out loud. Partially from fear of reprisal and partially from the sheer terror that someone might just answer him.  Because what if his master was right? What if he really had damned himself by learning how to use evil, forbidden magic? What if he really was cursed, a bad omen bringing bad luck down on all those around him? If his master was right, then he deserved everything that came to him.

Dobby smiled at him sadly. “My old family is being bad,” Dobby admitted quietly, his fingers clenched tightly to prevent himself from inflicting the self-punishment he felt compelled to perform for insulting his masters. “They is making me hurt myself for things that is not being my fault.” He traced a hand over the scarred skin on the back of his left ear. “I is thinking it is being my fault,” he admitted gently, “I is trying to be a better house elf, but it is not making things better.” Dobby’s eyes glazed over and he was looking off into the distance, hands fidgeting on his lap.

Sal waited whilst Dobby got himself together. “So what changed?” Sal eventually asked. It was the question he’d been itching to ask, ever since he’d found out that the elf was free and not tied to a master, but it had seemed impolite to just bring the matter up out of the blue.

Dobby turned to regard Sal very seriously. “I is hearing talk about bad things. Things that would hurt the great Harry Potter and his friends.” Dobby took a deep breath, and reached over to grab Sal’s hand. Sal only flinched a little, and so Dobby continued. “I is not wanting Harry Potter to be being hurt and so I’s telling him about the plot.” Sal frowned, but let Dobby continue. “It is being hard for house elves to disobey our masters, our magic is being bound to them.”

“But you managed,” Sal noted quietly, in awe of the elf next to him. Dobby nodded. “But, didn’t that just get you in more trouble, when your master found out?” Sal asked, trying to contain the shock of fear that coursed through him at the thought of the multitude of disobediences that his master had no idea had been committed by Sal over the years. He knew, deep down, that he’d have to pay for most of them, eventually.

“I is being free before that is happening,” Dobby replied with a slight smirk. Sal couldn’t help but grin; Dobby was something else.

“Well thanks for cheering me up,” Sal said with a wry smirk, “but my master has lobbed plenty of dirty laundry my way in the past, and I still owe a life debt. Not sure your way is going to work for me.” Sal rolled his eyes and tried not to think how much he wished that it would. He’d heard the story from several of the elves, how Harry Potter had tricked Draco’s dad into freeing Dobby one day, a few years back. The tale was already a House Elf folk legend. Sal would bet all of the money that he didn’t have that they’d still be talking about it in a few hundred years. Sadly, he didn’t think that Fate would ever be so generous to him.

“I is thinking,” Dobby said quietly, his voice soft and uncertain. “I is thinking that I would be being free eventually, without Harry Potter’s help.” Dobby let out a deep breath and shook himself slightly, as if relieving himself of the monumental confession that he had just unveiled.

“What?” Sal wasn’t sure he’d just heard what he thought he’d heard.

“I is thinking that I would be being free eventually, without Harry Potter’s help,” Dobby repeated himself, although with more confidence the second time round. “I was being able to do more and more magic without my master’s permission. He was not wanting me to be helping Harry Potter. I was taking my magic back.”

“Dobby, that’s remarkable,” Sal breathed out in wonder. He did not consider himself the authority on, well… on anything, really, but certainly not on house elves. But he did know that what Dobby was suggesting was widely considered impossible. House elves couldn’t betray their masters. They couldn’t take their freedom for themselves; their magic was bound too heavily to that of their masters. But yet it sounded like Dobby had been on the verge of doing just that, even before his emancipation by flying sock. Sal studied Dobby’s shaking form and suddenly he understood why the other elf delighted in the legend so much. It was far safer to be notorious for being freed by a twelve year old’s prank. Far safer to just let everyone assume that you were a bit eccentric, and had fallen incredibly lucky, rather than letting anyone see how close you had come to demolishing one of the fundamental beliefs of wizard- house elf relations. Sal felt his respect for Dobby shoot up a good few levels.

Dobby shot him a tentative glance, and took a quick fortifying breath. “I is thinking you could be being free that way too.” He turned to look Sal straight in the eye. “Magic is being a weapon. They is not liking us to have weapons because they is not wanting us to fight. I is taking back my freedom from my master, you can be taking yours too.”

Sal froze at the suggestion and blinked slowly. What Dobby was talking about wasn’t just terrifying, it was revolutionary. It was also dangerous as fuck. Sal felt a little hysterical, panic rising in his chest as he realised that Dobby was waiting for a reply.

“D-Dobby,” he finally managed to stutter out, “I c-can’t. It’s not like that f-for me! I owe a life debt! I can’t just take my freedom back!”

“It is not needing to be no ore master straight away,” Dobby said simply, face utterly serious and totally composed. “But you is being free every time you is doing something your master is not liking.” This time Sal let out a quick bark of slightly unhinged laughter. If that were true, he’d have been a freeman fucking years ago.

“You c-can’t be serious!” he gasped out. “It d-doesn’t w-work that way.” The whole idea was ludicrous! As if there weren’t a million reasons why disobeying his master at all for the foreseeable future was anything other than a tremendously fucking stupid idea!

“They is telling you ‘do this’ and ‘do that’,” Dobby told him seriously, jumping off the bed and moving to stand in front of Sal, “they is taking away your magic and saying ‘we will hurt you if you say no’. So they is controlling you.” He took Sal’s shaking hands in his own and squeezed them once, tightly, in silent solidarity. “Dobby is not saying you is having to be doing anything,” he said firmly, turning away to the bedroom door, “but they is going to keep hurting you just because they is angry or bored. It is not going to be getting better.” Sal flinched, hardly breathing, as Dobby turned around and looked him dead in the eye. “You is needing a wand.”

Dobby didn’t disapparate on his way out, but he may as well have done with how hard Sal flinched as he left the room. He felt wrung out and shaky. He had not expected such a…revolutionary…conversation with the house elf. The other elves had said that Dobby was a little odd, but no one had ever even hinted that he had such dangerous views. Sal took a deep breath and ran his hands over his face.  He knew the sensible thing to do was to ignore Dobby completely, but he couldn’t help the way that his mind kept replaying the words over and over.

There was an insidious little voice at the back of his head that kept nagging at him, telling him that maybe Dobby had a point. Sal had already started to disobey his master, hadn’t he? He had been taught reading by Colin and some magic by Professor Snape. He’d taken to Draco’s lessons on high society and politics like a duck to water. He had been spending time with Rowena and Lady Hufflepuff, discussing magical theory and learning what it felt like to be treated like an intellectual equal. He had even become somewhat convivial with Lord Godric. Admittedly, not all of those things had come easily, or pleasantly. Sal had no idea where he stood with Harry and his friends, and he doubted that he would ever be truly regarded as an equal by the ladies and Lord Godric, and, well, the less that was said about the increasing likelihood that Sal was going to be drawn into Draco’s murder conspiracy, the better. But Sal had still done all of those things, things that would greatly displease his master, that were intended to directly aid his freedom. He’d done them anyway and it’d felt glorious. It was like he’d been trapped underwater, holding his breath for so long, and he’d finally surfaced to breathe free air. Fuck, Dobby was right. It was a kind of freedom.

Sal shook himself forcibly, squashing down the intoxicating feeling that rose up within him. Perhaps it might have been worth it, before. But Dobby had been right about another thing: his master was getting worse. Even if Sal had been deliberately disobeying his master, talking to the students of the castle when he should have been working in the kitchens, he had not deserved a flogging like the one he’d taken from his master. It was too much, and his master had gone too far. He knew that. It was a vaguely terrifying thought. Even when he had been beaten in the past, he’d still felt, beneath all the fear and the humiliation and the pain, that there would be an end to it all, and that his master would call it off when he felt justice was done. Sal hadn’t felt like that the other day. In fact, there was a moment, towards the end, when it felt like the whip would keep falling forever. He’d truly believed, for the first time, that his master just might beat him to death. His master’s behaviour was escalating and yes, Sal was not stupid, he knew that it was probably fuelled by the impotence Lord Gryffindor felt at being trapped within the confines of another man’s castle. He knew that his master’s punishment was disproportionate, but since when did that matter? It wasn’t up to Sal, or Dobby, or anyone else for that matter, how his master dealt with him; he just had to take what he was given and try to keep on breathing.

The thought chased its way across his mind for the rest of the day, and the day after. He tried practising his reading, as he had originally intended, but it just made him feel sick with terror. What if his master came in and saw him reading? It was a ridiculous thought- his master would never enter the kitchens, let alone the slave sleeping quarters- but once it was in his mind, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. He nearly threw the book away, just in case someone came across it and word got back to his master, but stopped at the last minute. What if someone found it in the rubbish and traced it back to him? Sal knew that he was being paranoid, but he couldn’t help tensing with fear, remembering the crack of the whip.

Mipsy let him help with some simple chores, knowing, without him having to say a word, that inactivity was making his fear worse. But his hands kept shaking, and he was working too slowly for the busy pace of the kitchen. The other elves were getting annoyed at him, he could tell, even if they were too polite to say otherwise. It all came to ahead when Mipsy asked him to sweep the floor. His hands were shaking too much, and he dropped the brush; it landed with a sharp crack on the stone floor. It took the combined efforts of three elves to coax him out of the corner and the panic attack that he’d found himself in, and he’d retired immediately to the bedroom in abject humiliation. He felt like such a fucking failure. He’d tried to rise above his station, he’d tried to better himself and he’d only ended up worse than useless. He should just keep his head down and pray that he go unnoticed by his master for the remainder of their stay.

A few hours after the incident with the brush, Mipsy arrived at the door with Professor Snape. Apparently Sal’s bandages had been on for long enough, and it was now better for his wounds to be exposed to the open air. Sal tried to seem like he cared. He knew that the professor could sense that there was something wrong, as he kept shooting irritated looks at Sal’s blank expression, but he didn’t say anything about it. He only gave him a very stern look and told him, as he swept out of the room, not to do anything that might make the wounds any worse. Mipsy patted Sal’s hand gently on her way out, but Sal knew the professor well enough by now to know that it was his way of saying “be careful”.

Sal didn’t know where it came from, but he’d been alone for all of five minutes when the compulsion to look at his back came over him. He knew that it was probably a bad idea, that seeing the actuality of the state his master left him in would probably only make him even more terrified, but he couldn’t help himself. It was like an itch that he just had to scratch. He warred with himself for a good few minutes, before his common sense finally surrendered and he hurried into the bathroom.

He had expected it to be bad. Sal had been prepared for it to be ugly. But the sight that greeted him in the mirror was worse, much worse. He spun back round almost immediately, leaning on the sink for support as he drew in ragged breaths. He honestly didn’t know how he’d walked away from the mess that was his back; if he’d been left there without Professor Snape’s help, he probably wouldn’t have. Fuck. Perhaps his master really had meant to kill him. Sal felt dizzy as the realisation struck him. He probably owed another fucking life debt to Professor Snape too, who would have the final right to own him, then? Perhaps the good professor and his master could sort it out over wands at dusk, like proper gentlemen.

Sal grasped tightly on the sink and tried to breath around the ragged, hysterical sobs that were forcing their way out of his chest. Fuck, he had nearly died. Again. He hadn’t been exaggerating, that beating would have finished him. Fuck. He sank to the floor, pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around himself, rocking back and forwards as he used to do when he was a child. Dobby had been right, his master had almost killed him, and over what? Sal being somewhere he shouldn’t? That wasn’t even the first time that had happened since they had been at Hogwarts; Sal hadn’t deserved that beating. Fuck. Dobby was right, if his master could lose control like that, there was no way Sal could predict his behaviour, no way that Sal could prepare himself for what to expect. Fuck. What if next time he did something wrong his master just said ‘fuck it’ and ran him through? Sal’s sobs grew louder, and his blood pounded in his ears. Dobby was right. Dobby was fucking right.

Slowly but surely, the thought solidified in his head. Dobby was right. Perhaps Sal didn’t stand a chance in Hell against his master, but that wasn’t going to change by rolling over and baring his throat. He was fucked no matter what he did, so he may as well embrace it. One last half-sob-half-laugh tumbled from his lips, and then calmness and resolution washed over him. If he was going to die, he was going to die free, even if it was only in his own mind. Dobby was so right.

It was easy for Sal to sneak out of the kitchens and up through the darkened hallways of the castle. His heart pounded loudly in his chest, but for once the terror was exhilarating, rather than crippling. He honestly didn’t care if he got caught, or what it would entail for him; it wasn’t really a question of ‘if’ anymore, just ‘when’. It was still quite early in the night, and Sal knew that the student prefects were still walking their rounds of the castle, but he seemed to hear them coming towards him with just enough time to duck behind a suit of armour, or into an empty classroom. It was also late enough that the professors not on patrol duty should have nearly finished playing cards in the staff room, unless Professor McGonagall had already cleaned them out for the night, of course. House elf gossip had it that the Headmaster had lost ten Galleons to her in February alone. But when Sal sneaked past the staff room door, he could still make out the muffled sound of voices on the other side, and he slunk past undetected. It was almost as if the castle itself was helping him on his way, clearing a path for him as he made his way along empty corridor after empty corridor.

When he finally reached the room he was looking for, Sal paused. He took a deep breath and focused on what he wanted to achieve, what he was risking his neck for, out and about in the middle of the night. The room was exactly how he remembered it, chaotic and cluttered, but he knew exactly where he was going; his feet remembered the path clearly. He made his way through the shelves of stacked detritus, following the faint hissing sound. This time, when the wand called to him, he didn’t ignore it. Sal beamed as he held the wand in his hand and it shot out a scattering of emerald green sparks. He didn’t know if his heart was beating so frantically out of excitement or terror, but he decided it didn’t matter. He was taking back his magic, his freedom. Fuck his master; he would take whatever that prick decided to dish out, he didn’t care. Anything was worth that one moment, the power he felt at having a wand at his fingertips. He euphorically cast a _Wingardium Leviosa_ on the desk in front of him and whooped in joy as it rose three feet off the floor. Sal forced more power into the wand, and the desk shot up and crashed against the ceiling, shattering into smithereens. The wand burned like hot iron in Sal’s hand, but he clutched it tightly, standing dazed an elated in the falling cloud of sawdust and splintered wood. The power he had felt in that moment was intoxicating. It was liberating. He was taking his fucking magic back. Fuck, but Dobby was _right_ : he had needed to get his hands on a wand.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there, I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> TW particulars: Sal is whipped by Lord Gryffindor and he dislocates his shoulder. It's violent and Sal is in a very bad state. The panic attack/ PTSD is a consequence of this. 
> 
> Man, this got dark! I apologise profusely, but this is the turning point for this fic. Sal has hit rock bottom and he's realising he can't wait around for everyone else to help him. Harry, Snape, Draco, they all mean well, but no one is able to actually help him when it comes down to it. Dobby is pretty clear about the way to move forwards- Sal is saving himself. 
> 
> Also, I have very strong feelings about Draco in book six. My beautiful beta has compared my Draco to a terrifying mix of Henry Higgins and Glinda, but I think of him as the kid who was living the British Blyton-esque boarding school ideal, with rich, loving parents and a pesky rival who thwarts him at the school sport, and then Lucius is arrested and his whole world falls apart. Suddenly Draco is playing in the big leagues and he's fucking terrified by it. He's conflicted and so not a good character, but I think it makes him all the more interesting. Harry's known the score from book 1- it's been life or death for him since he was a baby. Draco is suddenly in his worst nightmare, and he really just wants his old life back. Being a Death Eater was not all he thought it would be.
> 
> Anyway next chapter we start to unravel a bit more about Sal's past and the Founders clue the fuck up. Also Dumbledore gets shouted at, which he richly deserves.


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